


What A Wonderful World This Would Be

by mambo



Series: four years of college and plenty of knowledge [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, And All The Buildings On This Campus Are Named After X-Men Characters, Bucky Barnes Played Football In High School, College, College AU, Frat Boy!Bucky, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk!Steve, The Howling Commandos As A Frat Is One Of My Finer Ideas, University, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers isn't about to let some frat boy jerk like Bucky Barnes show him up, even if it means having to kick Brock Rumlow in the balls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Wonderful World This Would Be

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, a lot of the inspiration for the campus described in this fic comes from my experiences going to a small liberal arts school. I totally get that other schools have fraternities who live off-campus and classes with hundreds of people. But Steve and Bucky do not go to one of these schools.

_Don’t know much about history_

_Don’t know much biology_

_Don’t know much about a science book_

_Don’t know much about the French I took_

_But I do know that I love you_

_And I know that if you love me, too_

_What a wonderful world this would be_

—‘Wonderful World’ by Sam Cooke

…

Steve was supposed to be done with group projects.

Like, seriously. How many painful hours did he spend in high school getting picked last and doing all the work for a bunch of good-for-nothing assholes who’d spit on him during lunch while calling him names? Xavier College was supposed to consist of two things: studying what he wanted and _no group projects_. (Well, maybe there was more than that to college, but that was what Steve had hoped college would be at the very least.)

But because fate is cruel to little Steve Rogers, Professor Schmidt walks up to his podium during the third week of class and announces: “You vill be working witz partners for your next assignment.” He glares from one side of the small lecture hall to the other. “Of _my_ choosing. Do not allow yourself to hope that zis partner is someone who you sit near or iz your friend. I haf been watching all of you for several weeks now; I know who you do and do not talk to.” His gaze falls to the row of fraternity brothers who sit in the back, who oftentimes spend the period poking each other and giggling, rolling their eyes when Schmidt says something that can be misconstrued as racist. Which, in Introduction to American Literature, is pretty often. “You vill read a short story off of a pre-determined list zat is sitting by ze door. You and your partner will write a short paper on it togezer. The instructions are on the handout zat you vill pick up.”

Steve’s stomach is suddenly all over the place, coupled with a bit of lightheadedness. It isn’t like he would’ve had many choices—okay, well _any_ choices—if Schmidt had let them choose their own partners, but the thought of being shackled to one of the guys in the back row is enough to make Steve want to run out of the room, force himself into the Registrar’s Office and demand to be taken out of the class. Guys like that see Steve, with his half-shaved head, piercings and all-black wardrobe and they don’t see their equal. They see their lunch. Or at least their ticket to a solid C in this class, boosted by the work Steve does on the project. Either way, Steve thought he’d have left this crap behind in Brooklyn. Turns out he’s wrong.

“I vill call out your last name, along with another student’s. You two vill work togezer on the assignment, which is due at the beginning of class on Friday. I vill accept no excuses, nor any late work. Vhen I say your names, you and your partner vill silently leave the room, picking up a handout on the way out ze door. Are zere any questions?” He pauses, but the room is silent. No more silent than usual, however: most of the students in this class learned early on that speaking up is a surefire way to get yelled at by Schmidt, his face getting redder and redder as he screamed, earning him the nickname Red Skull. Schmidt nods once, satisfied, and grabs a sheet from the podium. He clears his throat once and squints just a bit before announcing the first partnership: “Barton and Dugan.”

The somewhat friendly stoner who sits next to Steve grabs his backpack and stands up, as does the most boisterous guy who sits in back, the one with the mustache and stupid nickname. Steve lets himself hope that maybe Schmidt picked partners based on their academic seriousness—that’d explain the first pairing, at least. And maybe then Schmidt will have paired Steve up with Peggy Carter, the brunette who sits in front of him, whose answers are so convincing and concise that not even Schmidt can find a reason to be angry with her. Steve also doesn’t mind her impeccable style and British accent or the small, satisfied smile that she makes when she knows she does something right, but those are for reasons that aren’t necessarily academic. 

“Carter,” Schmidt calls and Steve straightens up, hoping that it’ll be him. _Praying_ that’ll it be him. “And Romanoff.” The redheaded girl who sits next to Clint Barton stands with a catlike grace, nods to Peggy Carter and they head out of the room. Steve deflates. His life’s turning into a cosmic joke. Schmidt calls a few other pairs and the room starts emptying out. Steve wonders if maybe there’s an odd number of students and if Schmidt will let him work alone. That would be a blessed relief. Of course, it’s that moment that Schmidt announces: “Rogers and Barnes.”

Steve’s stomach drops. None of the few people left in front of him stand, which means it must be someone in the last two rows. Steve doesn’t want to look, but he physically forces himself and… It’s one of the frat guys. The last one, actually, packing a notebook into his bag as he stands up, glancing down at Steve expectantly. Steve notices Schmidt watching him with something like amusement on his face, and it’s only because the guy is going to give him a grade that Steve doesn’t march up there and give him a piece of his mind. Schmidt’s a bully, pairing him up with a guy who would’ve beat him up in high school. But Steve stands up, resigned to his fate. He exits the seminar room with hunched shoulders, only realizing after he’s halfway down the hallway that he forgot about Schmidt’s stupid handout. He stops to turn around, nearly knocking into Barnes (because honestly, Steve doesn’t know his first name).

“Woah there buddy,” he says, grabbing Steve’s shoulder to keep them from colliding. He’s got paper in the same hand; he grabbed the handout and didn’t bother— “I got you an extra, if that’s why you were goin’ back.”

“Huh?”

“The handout.” He lets go of Steve and holds out the paper. “I saw you didn’t grab one, so I got two.”

“Oh.” Steve takes one of the papers from him. “Thanks.” He can’t muster much enthusiasm in his voice.

“We should go out to the lobby,” Barnes says, taking the lead now. “We can chat there.”

Steve nods, a moot gesture since Bucky’s in front of him, but he follows along until they’re in the lobby of Summers Hall, the building their English class is in. Bucky pauses, looks around, then heads to a bench on the side of the spacious, sunny lobby. He sits down, smiles at Steve and pats the seat next to him. Steve slips his backpack off and drops it next to the bench before sitting down. “I’m Bucky,” Bucky says, holding a hand out, which Steve shakes. “Bucky Barnes.”

“Steve Rogers.”

Bucky pumps his hand once, then pulls it away. He glances down at the paper. “Seems like most of the stuff on here’s pretty standard; oh, I’ve read that one before. You have a preference for which one we do?”

“Not _The Scarlet Ibis_.” It slips out and Bucky looks up at him, so Steve tries to backtrack. “I mean, we can if you want, but I’ve read it before and it’s… there’s no words to describe just how _awful_ it is.”

Steve glances at Bucky, hoping that he hasn’t done something that’s going to doom this partnership before it’s really begun, but Bucky starts _grinning_ , smile spreading from his mouth up through his face, lingering in his blue eyes moments after he responds. “No, man, I totally get it. I had to read it in high school and I think it scarred me for life.” Steve lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “How about the Salinger?” Bucky asks. “ _A Perfect Day for Bananafish_? You read it?” Steve shakes his head. “It’s not gonna be happy, but if nothing else, Salinger’s got such a voice that’ll be a piece of cake to knock out a five-page essay on it.”

And that’s a surprise.

“Are you an English major?” Steve asks.

Bucky chuckles, shakes his head. “History and physics.”

“Both?”

He shrugs. “I like both World War II and robots.”

“And J.D. Salinger.”

“So you wanna do that story?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Sounds good.”

Bucky looks like he’s about to respond, but pauses. “You sure you don’t wanna take another look? I didn’t give you too long, don’t want to force you into it just ‘cus I spent most of high school pretendin’ I was Holden Caulfield.”

Steve smiles, because the mental image of this kid going around calling people phony is a bit too much, since…

Well since Bucky Barnes is actually pretty attractive, even if it is in a kind of fratty way.

He’s got dark hair, short on the sides and longer on top, expertly styled into something a bit retro that he somehow pulls off and bright blue eyes that have a sort of mischievous gleam in them. There’s some stubble on his cheeks and chin, but he looks clean, well-put together. He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a plaid, collared shirt with a black zip-up fleece vest thrown over it, unzipped. At least he’s not wearing boating shoes, instead opting for a pair of black, waterproof boots. Nothing at all like Steve’s ripped jeans, piercings up and down his ears and hearing aid, but hey, he can appreciate the view for what it is.

And the view’s pretty good, all things considered.

“That’s kinda phony,” Steve says, unable to help himself.

“You got me there, but you can’t tell me you didn’t go through some Holden stage. We _all_ went through a Holden stage. That’s how we ended up at liberal arts school.”

“You got me there.”

Bucky pauses to look at Steve, eyes a bit searching. Steve looks down. “Sorry, I didn’t ask. What’s your major?” Bucky asks. Then, “Wait, can I guess?”

“Sure.”

“Sociology?”

Steve shouldn’t be disappointed, but he feels a small curl of it. “No, it’s—“

“Wait, art.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah.”

“You’ve got ink all over your pants.”

Steve shrugs. “It happens when you use a lot of ink.”

“Drawing 101?” Steve nods. “My friend Jim Morita’s in it. You know him?” Steve shakes his head. Bucky frowns. “He’s a real good guy, you should chat him up.” Bucky sighs, “Anyhow, gotta figure out some kinda schedule. Think you can get it read by tomorrow? We could meet at my place and go over it, then maybe draft up the paper on Saturday, if you’re not busy. What do you think ‘bout that?”

“That sounds… Great, actually,” Steve says, still surprised. From the way that Schmidt glares up at the boys in the back row and how they rarely participate, Steve would’ve thought that none of them care about the class. But Bucky’s nodding and scribbling in their timetable on the margin of his handout before showing it to Steve.

“Sorry.”

“For being organized?”

Bucky chuckles. “I gotta be a little anal, is all. I have a couple jobs. Makes scheduling group projects a bit tricky, since I’m usually doin’ my own work at four in the morning.” Steve’s at a bit of a loss for words, and Bucky seems to notice. “You wanna meet in my room?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I live in McCoy Hall. Room 304. You know where that is?” Steve nods. _Everyone_ knows McCoy Hall. It’s notorious. It’s where the Sigma Pis live. They’re one the most exclusive and craziest fraternities on campus, famous for their Champagne Ball each December, where they provide shitty champagne to whoever wanders in, as long as they’re wearing a tuxedo or some kind of formal wear. Steve heard that one year the whole fraternity went in traditional Irish kilts, but kilts un upstate New York in December ended up being a bad idea. Regardless, the Sigma Pis are the sort of guys who don’t even look at Steve when he walks by. They’re nicer than some of the other frats, for sure, but they’re too busy getting girls and drunkenly howling at the moon, or whatever it is that guys in fraternities do, to spend much time thinking about Steve Rogers. “So, six o’clock tomorrow, then?” Steve nods as he grabs his bag.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You gonna make it to dinner?”

Steve raises a pierced eyebrow. “Huh?” he asks intelligently.

Bucky’s lip quirks. “You gonna be able to get to the dining hall tomorrow night? I can order a pizza.”

“I’ll be fine,” Steve says. He’ll be coming straight from open studio hours, but he can stick a granola bar in his bag. It’ll hold him over until they’re done, if nothing else.

Bucky nods. “Cool,” he says. “So… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Steve says.

“I’m holdin’ you to readin’ it, ‘kay?” Bucky’s grinning, sounding not serious at all. “But I know you will.”

“And how do you know that?” Steve asks as he stands, slings his backpack over his shoulder.

Bucky’s smirk is almost obscene. “‘Cus the last thing you want is some fratty asshole showin’ you up when you thought this would be the worst partner project of your life.”

Steve stutters out an, “I—“

But Bucky just laughs. “Don’t worry about it bud, just don’t be late!” Bucky gives him a final wave before setting off, out the doors of Summers Hall and into the crisp, early autumn day.

Steve can’t help but watch him go.

**…**

Steve also can’t help but to color coordinate his notes on the short story, different colored post-its and highlighter colors for theme, characters and whatever other categories Steve can think of. It is definitely overkill, but like _hell_ is he gonna let Bucky show him up after that little stunt, and Steve’s never backed away from an obvious challenge like that. He made it through the Brooklyn public school system as a ninety-pound, bisexual asthmatic with a hearing aid. He’s not gonna let some smart ass frat guy be his undoing now.

**…**

That evening when Sam gets back to the room, Steve casually—ever so casually—immediately asks him, “Do you know Bucky Barnes?”

“Well hello to you too,” Sam says, setting his backpack down on his bed, then pulling off his jacket.

“Sorry, I… I’m working with Bucky Barnes on a project.”

“Lucky you,” Sam says. “Haven’t spoken to him personally, but I hear he’s a good guy. Makes me a bit nervous, but that’s only because Sharon thinks he’s cute.” Sam’s been hooking-up with sophomore Sharon Carter since meeting her at a party during the first week of school. He hasn’t made anything official yet, but Steve knows that it’s only a matter of time before he asks her to be his girlfriend. “Which class is this for?”

“English.”

Sam walks over to his desk and leans against it, looking over at Steve. They share a standard college double. Each side of the room is identical: a closet, then a twin XL-sized bed, then a desk and chair. There’s a red, oriental-style rug between their beds. Steve’s side of the room is decorated with postcards, most of them of pieces of art from museums he’s visited, but a few are other things. Before he left home, his mom splurged on a box set of postcards from the Whitney Museum, all of which depict scenes of New York. Those are his favorites. Sam’s side has a few posters, the biggest being of Marvin Gaye. He’s also got a bunch of pictures tacked to the wall of him and his family and his friends back home. Most of them include his best friend, Riley, who goes to school in California and who Sam misses a lot, even if it’s hard for him to talk about.

“I’m gonna assume that he wasn’t your first choice,” Sam say.

Steve shrugs. “Schmidt picked the partners.” He pauses. “Bucky seems smart,” he allows, which makes Sam roll his eyes.

“Well, don’t mess it up. I hear Barnes is a good guy and it’d be nice if you made a new friend.”

Steve frowns. “I have friends.” Well, mostly Sam, but he’s working on it, okay? The whole friends thing hasn’t come too easily to him.

“I’m your roommate. I don’t count.”

And there goes that.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. It’s real rough seeing you beat up on yourself that way. You’re a person. A good person. Don’t ever let yourself believe otherwise.”

“Shut the hell up and do your homework, Rogers.”

**…**

Steve rushes out of open studio hours at 5:59, which would wouldn’t normally be a big deal, but McCoy Hall is halfway across campus and Steve tends gets winded going up two flights of stairs. So when Steve gets to the third floor of McCoy Hall it’s already 6:12 and he’s huffing and puffing. He’s sure he looks pathetic, but he’s also _late_ , which means that he can’t stop to catch his breath. He knocks on Bucky’s door, which opens up immediately. “Hey,” Bucky says. He looks more casual today; dark wash jeans and a form-fitting black t-shirt, which shows the outline of a well-defined six-pack. It’s almost disgusting. What’s worse is that Steve can just see the bottom of some kind of tattoo on Bucky’s left arm, but not enough to have any clue what it is. His hair is styled the same, but the best part of the whole get up are the grey socks he’s wearing, his big toe sticking out of the left one in a giant hole. Suddenly Steve feels a lot less nervous. There’s quiet music coming from inside the room, something jazzy, older and unexpected. Steve can’t place what it is.

“Hey,” Steve says back, voice coming out stronger than he thought it would.

“You okay?” Apparently not strong enough, though.

“Um, yeah.” Steve shrugs and clears his throat. “Sorry I’m late.” 

Bucky shrugs right back. “No big deal. Your fried rice is gettin’ cold though, so.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky smiles, gestures for Steve to enter the room before retreating to his desk to fiddle with the laptop computer on it.

Steve follows Bucky’s lead and heads inside. Bucky’s got a single and even though it’s not too big, it’s comfortable. More comfortable than Steve’s small double, which is probably only a few square feet bigger than Bucky’s single. On one side of the room the standard, twin XL bed. Bucky’s bedding is navy with a plaid duvet. The bed is made up well, but more surprising than that is the fluffy brown teddy bear sitting next to the pillows. The bear is wearing a black domino mask and Steve can’t help but wonder what the story behind it is, since Bucky doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who’d keep his childhood bear with him in college. On the wall next to the bed are a few World War II propaganda posters. There are three. The first depicts a man standing up in a crowded room, obviously demanding the attention of the people in it. The bottom says, “Save Freedom of Speech, Buy War Bonds.” Another has a man riding in a car with the ghostly outline of Adolf Hitler and states that “When you ride ALONE you ride with Hitler! Join a Car-Sharing Club TODAY!” But the third is what jumps out at Steve, since it’s a familiar image to him. The original painting was done by John Steuart Curry—a famous Regionalist painter, though largely overshadowed by Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton—which depicts a farm and his children in a field of wheat. “Our Good Earth… Keep It Ours. BUY WAR BONDS. Make Every Market Day BOND Day.” 

Steve turns away, pretty sure that Bucky would not be interested in the provenance of the poster. Next to the bed is a large window and a wooden dresser resting beneath it. The other side of the room has closet—whose door is closed—along with a desk and chair. The desk is the standard, college-issued wood, nothing fancy. It has the laptop on it, as well as a few mugs filled with office supplies. On one side of the laptop is a large stack of papers, various colored post-its sticking out odd angles, while the other side has a few white cartons of Chinese takeaway, one open and with a pair of wooden chopsticks poking out of it. Above the desk is a wall of photos—most of the faces in them are at least somewhat familiar to Steve, members of Sigma Pi, Bucky’s fraternity, who Steve have seen around campus. He spots a few of the guys from his English class, as well as someone from his drawing seminar, who must be the guy Bucky mentioned: Jim Morita.

Bucky quickly types something into the computer and the music changes from the brassy jazz he was listening to something Top 40 that Steve is sure he’s heard, but doesn’t know the name of. Steve doesn’t say anything about it, just stands awkwardly in the middle of Bucky’s room. He glances down; there’s a red rug on top of the tan-colored tiles. There’s a definite color scheme to the room, well-planned out and homey. It’s clean and nice; it reminds Steve of Bucky, which isn’t something that he should be able to pick out having had only one conversation with the guy. “Here,” Bucky says, turning around and handing Steve a container. “You’re not a vegetarian, right?”

“No,” Steve says, reaching for the container. 

“Good,” Bucky says, handing it over, then reaching for something else on the desk. “It’s just fried rice with chicken. It’s from the place on Newton Street. You been there?” He tosses a pair of chopsticks to Steve, who manages to catch them without spilling the carton, sort of a new feat of dexterity for him.

“No, but I hear it’s good.”

“It’s great,” Bucky says, picking up the container with the chopsticks in it from the desk. He leans against the desk as he shovels some rice into his mouth, posture casual as compared to Steve’s rigid nervousness. “I get take-out from them every Wednesday. Sometimes work there on weekends when I don’t got much goin’ on. Work for ‘em over breaks, too. Do deliveries, mostly. Weirdest is when I have to go to a professor’s house. That always gets a little weird. But they usually tip well, so it works out in the end.”

Steve holds both the container and his chopsticks in one hand, tries to fish his wallet from his back pocket with the other. “Here, let me—“

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Bucky says with a small laugh before scooping some more rice from his container. “They always give me a discount, so it’s no skin off my back.” He pauses, expression a bit thoughtful. “You remember me mentioning Jim Morita?” Steve nods, holding the warm carton tight. “He does open drawing hours with you,” Bucky says. There’s something in his tone, something maybe a little searching. The container of rice is hot against Steve’s hand. “Says that you always head straight for the dining hall when you’re done. He usually heads the same way, but you guys haven’t talked.” Bucky glances down at the carton in his own hands. “Thought you said you’d be able to get dinner.”

“I was going to go after,” Steve says. He’s finally caught his breath, but his lungs constrict when Bucky looks back up at him. “I’m not four years-old; I know how to feed myself. Made it this far without dying of malnutrition.”

“You’re so skinny; I couldn’t be sure,” Bucky says, smiling at last. “You should eat it, if doesn’t offend your capable, adult-like sensibilities, that is. Ain’t never gonna get better than when it’s hot.” He lets out a breath. “You can sit on the bed. I don’t care and the bear doesn’t take up too much space.”

A little embarrassed that Bucky must’ve seen him staring, Steve plops down on the floor. Bucky gives him a look. “I like the floor,” Steve says, which is true. He slips off his backpack and rests his back against the side of Bucky’s bed.

“You’re an obstinate guy,” Bucky says, setting his container back on the desk. He moves over to the computer and types something in. The jazzy music comes back on.

“I’ve been called much worse.” Steve pulls his chopsticks from their paper holder and opens up the fried rice. It smells delicious, looks fluffy and warm. He takes a bite and it’s great, especially after weeks of nothing but dorm food or the occasional lukewarm pizza at a number of first-year mixer events. “This is good, real good.”

“Told ya. There’s this place in Brooklyn though,” Bucky says, grabbing a few papers off the top of the pile on his desk and plopping down next to Steve. “It’s called Yen Yen. Jesus Christ, they’re the best Chinese food you’ll ever eat. I have dreams about it sometimes, it’s so—“

“You had their egg drop soup?” Steve interrupts because _holy shit_.

The side of Bucky’s lip quirks. “Yeah. My foster mom got it for me whenever I was sick.” He pauses. “You from Brooklyn?” he asks. Steve nods. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Brooklyn Heights. You?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” He pauses. “You guys kicked our asses in football.”

Steve shrugs, eats some more rice. “Didn’t pay much attention to that.”

“Was kind of hard for me to ignore, bein’ on the team and all.”

Steve blushes just a little and Bucky laughs, casually knocking his shoulder into Steve’s. “What was it that distracted you from sports and school spirit and the like?” Bucky asks. He’s looking directly at Steve, blue eyes lit up by the early evening light filtering in from the window.

“Art.” Steve swallows. “Chorus.”

Steve chooses not to mention the LGBTQA Society or the hours he spent getting beat up. The first one is none of Bucky’s business and the second is something that Steve doesn’t like to linger on, even if it is something that he ends up thinking about more often than not. It’s weird how those experiences shape you, make you who you are. Steve’s not glad they happened, but he’s pretty okay with the way he turned out.

“You a good singer?”

Steve chuckles, shakes his head. “Not at all. But it was fun.”

Bucky bites down on his lip for a second, then shakes his head, like he was thinking of saying something but choose against it at the last moment. He sets the papers down and reaches up to his desk for the container. “Next time I’ll get the beef short ribs. They’re the best. You’ll like ‘em, though I gotta admit I’m a little surprised you’re not a vegetarian.”

“Why’s that?”

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno. You got this whole vibe goin’ for ya. Like, I was a little scared when Schmidt said you’d be my partner.” Steve stops eating for a minute to revel in that—why on earth would Bucky Barnes be scared of _him_? But Bucky just pokes at his rice and doesn’t seem like he wants to explain himself.

“Why’s that?”

Bucky shrugs. “You’re smart, I can tell. But you’re also quiet and kinda glare at my friends. Yeah, Dum Dum’s a goof, but he’s a good guy, he really is. But he disturbs class and I get that. But I, dunno, thought you’d be kinda scary. Thought you wouldn’t like me.”

Steve swallows and looks down. “Sorry, I didn’t really think of it that way.”

Bucky chuckles. “Nah, just me bein’ paranoid.”

And because Steve’s never had a healthy sense of self-preservation, he says, “If it makes a difference, I think I do like you” and can barely bring himself to peak up at Bucky.

He’s rewarded with a wide grin. “Well, it’s probably just because I bribed you with food. That’s the best way to get anybody to be your friend.” Steve laughs, but doesn’t respond, just eats another mouthful of rice. “Anyhow, what’d you think of the story? I think there’re a couple things we could possibly focus on for the essay. What about..”

**…**

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” Steve says, looking up at Bucky an hour later. He’s got his laptop now, furiously typing everything the two of them having been talking about. It’s a short story, but their conversation just kept flowing and flowing. They’ve got six and a half pages of notes; more than enough to write a good five-page essay.

Bucky shrugs. “I’m on scholarship,” he explains. “I mean, that and I like English, so, guess I think a lot.”

Bucky blushes and rubs the back of his neck and.

Well. Shit.

“We should, uh,” Steve says, staring resolutely at the empty takeout container. The takeout container that Bucky got him since he asked his friend for intel, like Steve had asked Sam, and was concerned that Steve wasn’t going to having dinner. “Get together.” Steve realizes the way that sounds a beat too late and blushes hard. “I mean, for the essay. We talked about Saturday. Like, not together. But—“

“Jesus Steve, I understood from the beginning,” Bucky says laughing, throwing his head back against the bed, exposing the line of his neck. Which Steve looks at for purely artistic, aesthetic reasons. Then Bucky looks down at Steve, biting down on his lip in a way that Steve realizes is a habit of his. “I’m glad we’re partners.” He looks forward, over at the desk. “Coulda gotten stuck with someone who never does the reading.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “How do you know I do?”

Bucky moves his laptop off his lap, sets it on the floor. He stretches his arms up over his head, exposing the stretch of tan skin where his shirt rides up over his jeans. And Steve is definitely not looking for purely artistic and aesthetic reasons, but manages to drag his eyes away before Bucky notices. “You always annotate your books.I can see all those post-its from where I sit, even. You don’t talk much but you’re always leafing through your book because you know which exact quote will prove somebody wrong. Don’t try to argue; I totally notice.”

That’s not untrue.

“No fair,” Steve says. “You sit behind me. I can’t stare at you creepily at all.”

“Not starin’, just appreciatin’ the view.” Steve must look confused because Bucky laughs again. “You’re kinda cute,” he says. “‘Specially when you blush.”

Steve becomes very red then and Bucky’s still laughing and Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe this guy is flirting with him.

“Jerk,” Steve says because he may talk a big game for a little guy but right now he’s a bit flustered.

But Bucky just looks at him, quirks his lip and says, “Punk” like the two of them have been friends for years.

**…**

Steve gets home later than usual and his vague hope that Sam would be out seems to be in vain. “So how was your study date with Bucky Barnes?” Sam says as soon as Steve walks in. Sam’s sitting at his desk, which is covered in index cards, all covered in his small, neat handwriting. “You ready to rush Sigma Pi and pledge your allegiance to eternal brotherhood?”

“Shut up.” It doesn’t have much heat behind it, but frankly Steve’s _tired_. He slips off his backpack and collapses into bed.

He can hear Sam turn around, chair squeaking just a bit. “Was he an asshole?” Sam’s too nice a guy, always concerned about Steve. 

Steve grabs his pillow and holds it over his face. He wants to say yes, but what he ends up saying is much, much worse. “No.” Even muffled by the pillow, Steve can tell that Sam can hear his voice crack. “But he’s definitely not _not_ an asshole,” he adds because, honestly, there’s nothing he can say that could ease the terrible embarrassment he’s feeling at the moment.

Sam laughs, turns back around to the desk. “Sounds like you got a crush.”

Sam doesn’t duck in time and when the pillow hits his head, he swears so loud that the kid next door bangs on the wall, yelling at them to shut the hell up.

**…**

_It’s not a big deal_ , Steve tells himself that night as he stalks Bucky’s Facebook profile. Sam’s already asleep, since he’s not an insomniac like Steve, so Steve’s got his laptop in his bed and he’s managed to surf the Internet for a whole thirty minutes before caving.

 _Definitely not a big deal_. Bucky’s profile is of him and one of his fraternity brothers—Gabe Jones, who is in Steve’s English class—laughing. Bucky’s got an arm slung around Gabe’s shoulders. The photo is candid and affectionate with the bad lighting of a party. Bucky looks good, real good, and it’s only because Steve is already being a creep by checking out Bucky’s page at all that he convinces himself not to go through Bucky’s profile pictures one by one. Instead , he clicks over to the ‘About’ section of Bucky’s profile, scrolling through the page, trying to find what he wants to know.

 _It’s not earth-shattering_ , Steve almost says out loud when he realizes that Bucky Barnes does not have who he is ‘Interested In’ publicly listed on his profile. Steve does sigh, close the laptop and somehow will himself to fall asleep.

**…**

Steve gets to English far too early on Friday for absolutely no reason at all. He’s furiously rereading the same page of _The Sun Also Rises_ , words not really registering in his mind as he reads them. Rereading the chapter—which is really just Jake complaining that he can’t get it up, just like _every_ chapter of the book—is supposed to give him something to focus on, it keep his rebellious mind in check and too keep himself from looking up every time the door opens, expecting someone to come in. Because, despite whatever stupid things Sam may think, Steve definitely does _not_ have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

He glares down at his book like he has a personal vendetta against Ernest Hemingway and definitely does not notice Bucky entering the room, moving up the staircase and—

“Hey Steve.” Steve looks up and Bucky’s there. Stopping on the steps. To talk to Steve. He’s wearing dark jeans, a white shirt and a light blue cardigan sweater that Steve resolutely does not notice matches his eyes. He also does not notice that the shirt leaves _very little_ to Steve’s imagination. He’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder and a piece of paper is in his hand. “I printed out a copy of the schedule we planned out. Thought it might be useful.” He holds the paper out to Steve, who takes it.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. “No problem,” he says. “We still on for Saturday at four?” Steve nods. “Cool,” Bucky says. He pauses like he wants to say something else, but just fidgets instead.

Steve tries to say something, ask him how his day was or tell him he likes his sweater, but he can’t get the words out. And too quickly, one of the guys from the back row calls, “Bucky, get your ass up here!” Bucky glances back to his friends and Steve frowns. Bucky lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, and hitches his backpack back up on his shoulder.

He looks back down at Steve and he’s—fuck, he’s _smirking_. “Catch ya later, Stevie,” he says before turning around too quickly and heading up the aisle to his seat. Steve _resolutely_ does not look back at him during most of the period, but can’t help but sneak a peak near the end, when Schmidt is on some kind of insane rant about sexual promiscuity and unattainable women that Steve lost track of five minutes ago. Bucky’s watching Schmidt with a concerned look, holding his pen between his teeth. He’s got a full page of notes in front of him and his copy of the book is sitting upside down with its bent spine showing. Steve’s about to turn back when Bucky looks straight at him, removes the pen from his teeth and grins.

Steve turns back, thinks all sorts of swears that he wishes he could say out loud and blushes. _Furiously_.

Steve practically runs out of the room at the end of class.

**…**

“Enough moping,” Sam says that night while Steve is laying on his bed and surfing the Internet like he does most Friday nights. “Got word that there’s a big Psi U party across campus. You’re gonna be my date. Get dressed.”

Steve groans. “The Psi Us are assholes,” he says. Steve doesn’t know much about the Greek system—and he was pleasantly surprised by a certain Sigma Pi—but he, like everyone else on campus, knows that the Psi Upsilon Deltas are the meanest guys around. The group just got off probation for hazing pledges and rumor is that they’re all so starved for action that they’re going to throw down all weekend.

“Yeah, but they’re assholes with free beer.”

“Valid point,” Steve says, pushing himself up and out of his bed. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

**…**

Truth is, Steve Rogers has been drunk approximately zero times in his life. He got a bit tipsy once during orientation, but that may have been a bit of a fluke, some kind of placebo effect. He’s skinny—something that he doesn’t need to be reminded of, thanks—so a drink and a half is about all it takes for him to feel a bit out of sorts.

Forty-five minutes into the party, Steve’s had three shots and a beer and everything seems slow and far away; Steve can feel the music pulsating. Steve lost Sam a while ago—he doesn’t know how long ago—when Sam started talking to a beautiful redhead, who seemed familiar to Steve at the time. Steve’s been hanging at the edges of the party, just watching the gyrating people on the dance floor, bathed in the flashing lights and smelling of spilt beer. At one point, Steve thinks he spots Bucky jumping up and down in a group of Sigma Pis, howling with joy, but he’s not sure. It may have just been a trick of the eye, since a moment later Bucky disappears back into the crowd and Steve can’t pick him out again, try as he may.

All Steve knows that he feels warm and fuzzy and that when he stumbles into the other room, the Psi U President, Brock Rumlow, is screaming at some kid, forcing a funnel into his mouth and pouring a beer inside it. Tears are streaming from the kid’s eyes—even though, some part of Steve tells him, this guy is definitely not a kid, and is probably the same age as Steve or even older—and he’s coughing and gagging, beer spilling from his lips while Rumlow and a group of guys laugh.

And Steve Rogers has always had a big mouth.

“Hey,” he says, pushing his way through the watching crowd and up to Rumlow. “Cut it out.”

Rumlow snorts. “Go back to the party kid,” he says, rolling his eyes. He grabs a can of beer from someone in the crowd and dumping it down the funnel. The kid looks over at Steve with watery eyes, looking so much like Steve’s own, so many times as he walked down the halls of Brooklyn Heights. Steve suddenly feels sober.

“I said, cut it out!” Steve grabs the funnel from Rumlow’s hands and tosses it onto the floor. The kid starts coughing and vomits on Rumlow’s shoes. It misses Steve’s, and for a moment he feels almost lucky. Then he looks at Rumlow’s face.

“What the _fuck_?” Rumlow yells, glaring down at the mess. Steve follows his gaze and wishes that he hadn’t; it makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly. He kicks the vomit off his shoes, then shoves the kid—breathing heavy and holding an arm across his stomach like he may be sick again—so he can get to Steve. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

Steve’s voice barely shakes as he announces, “Steve Rogers.” Steve tries to stand-up straight, but the smell of vomit’s still making his own stomach rumble uncomfortably.

Rumlow draws in close; Steve swallows hard. “And who the fuck is Steve Rogers?” he says, breathing heavy through his nose, almost like a cartoon bull ready to attack. Steve purses his lips, refusing to look away, and Rumlow pushes his shoulder hard. “You come into _our_ house,” he says as Steve stumbles. “Drink _our_ beer.” Steve catches himself and takes a step forward, but is pushed back by Rumlow again. “And then tell us that we can’t do what we want with our pledges?”

“He’s sick,” Steve says, able to keep his balance better than the first time. “Look at him.” Rumlow doesn’t look at him, just stares at Steve with white eyes and that deep breathing, which terrifies Steve more than anything else Rumlow’s doing. A vein in Rumlow’s neck pulses and some distant part of Steve’s mind wonders if it’s in time with the distant music coming from the other room. “Aren’t fraternities supposed to be about brotherhood? Doesn’t seem very brotherly to land one of your own in the hospital.”

“If he ends up there he’s _weak_. Almost as bad as you,” Rumlow says. There’s a moment of silence where the two just look at each other. Then Rumlow’s fist clenches, he bares his teeth and with an exaggerated swing, aims a punch for Steve’s face.

Even though he’s drunk, there is enough warning that Steve could duck out of the way before the punch gets near him. But Steve’s still drunk, so he stumbles while he ducks and in the moment it takes him to recover, Rumlow draws his knee up and into Steve’s stomach. Steve doubles over, feeling dangerously close to vomiting all that beer Rumlow was worrying about back onto Rumlow. “You like that Rogers?” Rumlow taunts as Steve picks himself back up. “You ready to go to the hospital?”

“Not likely,” Steve says, swinging a punch at Rumlow, which Rumlow quickly dodges. His laughter is really just adding insult to punishment and Steve thinks it’s quite unnecessary.

“Nice try Rogers, but not good enough.”

Rumlow kicks Steve’s legs and they give out, leaving Steve in a pile on the floor, breath knocked out of him. Steve swallows, trying to get back up, but before he can, Rumlow’s grabbed him by the shirt collar and is hauling him back up. “Move,” Rumlow shouts to the crowd—because there’s a crowd, Steve remembers dimly, which is just peachy—and they must obey because a moment later, Rumlow thrusts Steve against the wall and has him pinned, hands rough on his shoulders, a knee against Steve’s thigh. “You ready for some pain, Rogers?”

“Ever heard of breath mints?”

It’s a valid question. Rumlow’s breath reeks as he mouth-breathes directly into Steve’s face. In a world of unpleasantness, this is the one thing that is currently sticking out to Steve. And frankly, better to focus on that then, you know, the bruises forming on every part of Steve’s body that Rumlow is currently touching.

But apparently Rumlow is at least a bit self-conscious about his lack of dental hygiene since he literally _snarls_ and pulls a fist back to punch Steve. Aware that there’s no way he can get out of Rumlow’s grasp, Steve shuts his eyes, braces himself for impact and—

“Get off ‘im, Rumlow,” says a low voice and the moment Steve thinks he’s getting punched ends up being the moment that Rumlow’s weight and disgusting breath are off of him. Steve opens his eyes and Bucky Barnes is standing there. He’s wearing jeans, a black shirt and a leather jacket. His hair is mussed and there’s a thin layer of sweat on his skin, like he’s been dancing. His eyes are narrowed and he’s glaring at Rumlow, expression unexpected and somehow fitting on Bucky. It sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

“What do you think you’re doing, Barnes?” Rumlow asks. He’s staggering, struggling to get his balance back, and Steve wonders what exactly happened while his eyes were closed.

“You get a kick out of beating freshmen up? Think I’m too much of a challenge for ya?”His expression changes suddenly; his eyes are shining bright and a cocky grin settles on his face. He’s bouncing a little, like a boxer before a fight.

“I don’t want to fight you, Barnes. Just leave Psi U business alone.”

Bucky snorts. “Don’t worry, I ain’t touchin’ your cocaine, pal.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Rumlow asks.

Bucky glances over at Steve for a moment, just a moment, and Steve doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Steve’s still against the wall, just trying to keep his breath in check. He feels an asthma attack coming and just needs it to wait, just fucking _wait_ because he knows that it’ll be a real problem if he can’t breathe right now. “It’d be a real shame if someone brought up the little invite-only party some Psi U’s are holdin’ in the basement to the cops, now wouldn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t—“

Bucky takes a step closer, expression hardening into a thin line. “I’m gonna take my friend here and go, Rumlow. You got that?”

“Like hell, Barnes,” Rumlow says, hurling himself at Bucky.

Bucky dodges with a nanosecond to spare and Rumlow ends up running into a few girls at the sidelines. One squeals while Rumlow staggers and swears. Before he can turn back around, Bucky grabs him by the collar of his shirt—echoing what he had done to Steve just minutes ago—and pulls him around. Bucky gets one well-aimed punch in and Rumlow sinks to the ground.

After taking a second looking down at Rumlow, seemingly to make sure that Rumlow’s still breathing, Bucky whips around. “C’mon,” he says, grabbing Steve’s hand and dragging him out of the room as the crowd parts for them. His grip is tight, but Bucky doesn’t once look his way as he leads them through the tangle of dancers in the other room and out the front door. 

They get a half dozen yards away from the building before Steve can’t stand it anymore. “Bucky,” Steve says, stopping and resolutely digging his feet into the ground. He lurches a little when Bucky keeps trying to pull him, but he manages to get Bucky to stop. “Buck—“

“You got a death wish?” Bucky says angry, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in his tone that Steve can’t decipher, doesn’t know how to place. Bucky glances down at his hand, still holding Steve’s, and then lets go, stepping back a foot while he’s at it. He’s looking at Steve with wide-eyes, like the adrenaline he had felt moments ago has just drained from him. “We gotta go, we gotta—“

But Steve can only just turn away from Bucky before he throws up.

“Shit,” Bucky says not unkindly as he moves to stand behind Steve. “It’s okay,” he says rubbing circles on Steve’s back as Steve retches. Somewhere in the back of Steve’s mind he knows that this is probably going to be the most embarrassing night of Steve’s life. “You’re gonna feel better after this,” Bucky says quietly as a few girls walk by, one laughing when she looks at Steve and Bucky. “Just get it all out.”

Bucky continues murmering kind things until Steve’s done and is able to straighten up, acidic taste in his mouth. “Well,” he says, looking at Bucky and feeling like his legs are jelly. “I think it’s all out.”

Bucky smiles like he doesn’t want to, but can’t help it. He lets his gaze wander away from Steve, out towards where McCoy Hall stands across the quad from them. When he looks back, his expression is more serious. “We gotta go, Steve,” Bucky says quietly. “When Rumlow wakes up he’s gonna be real mad, and we can’t be around when that happens. Where d’you live?”

“Summers Hall,” Steve says.

Bucky winces. “Across campus?” Steve nods. “Shit.” He pauses, takes a breath. “Who’d you come here with?”

“Sam,” Steve says.

“You’re gonna have to give me a bit more than that, Stevie,” Bucky says, then bites down on his lip like he thinks Steve’s gonna be weird about the nickname.

Steve’s not gonna say a thing about the nickname, because the nickname is just about the goddamn greatest thing Steve’s ever heard, and the fact that Bucky’s still using it even though he just had to beat a guy up and then stand around while Steve vomits is pretty amazing. Steve, well, he doesn’t want to ruin it any more than he possibly already has.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Date?”

Steve feels his cheeks turn red, sort of a feat after the paramount embarrassment that he’s already experienced during this night. “Roommate.” Steve must be imagining Bucky’s expression softening, looking almost relieved.

“You got your phone?” Steve nods. “Unlock it. I’m gonna text Sam.”

Steve does what he’s told because, honestly, he’s still feeling pretty terrible, and he’s pretty sure that after saving him from Rumlow and watching Steve puke his guts out, Bucky’s not going to do anything too awful to Steve now. “Why?” Steve ask, watching as Bucky types.

“McCoy is just over there. I’m gonna take you back to my room.” Steve goes very, _very_ red and Bucky glances up just in time to see, even though Steve turns away as quickly as he can to try to hide it. “Don’t worry kid, I’ve got a sleepin’ bag. But it’d be better to get inside, lay low. They wouldn’t come bargin’ into Sigma Pi territory, not if they don’t want the Greek Council on their ass.”

Steve nods dumbly as Bucky hands him back his phone. “You good to walk?” Bucky asks.

“Think so,” Steve says. Bucky smiles back at him and begins walking slowly, making sure Steve can keep up. “Thanks,” Steve says quietly, hoping that Bucky can’t hear it over the booming music from the Psi U’s party.

“No problem,” Bucky says. “But let’s not make this a habit, okay? If you wanted to come to my room, all you had to ask.”

“Jerk,” Steve says.

“Punk,” Bucky replies happily, linking his arm through Steve’s and pulling him close.

Definitely the most embarrassing night of Steve’s life.

**…**

Good thing he doesn’t remember most of it the next morning.

At least, he doesn’t remember immediately. All he knows is that he wakes-up in an unfamiliar twin XL, under a comfortable duvet that is definitely not his own. And when he can blink his blurry eyes open, the first thing he sees is John Steuart Curry’s stalwart wheat farmer and the fact that he’s covered in bruises and slept in Bucky Barnes’s room—his _goddamn bed_ —comes rushing back to Steve. He tries to swallow but his throat is so dry and fuzzy-feeling that he nearly coughs. Steve wants to sit up, to get out of here and leave Bucky alone, but his head is pounding. He has the vague thought that he’d rather die than leave this bed, which is warm and comfortable. It smells of something clean and spicy that Steve can’t quite describe. He wants to pull the covers over his head and spend the rest of his life here. But it’s Bucky’s room. He’s gotta go.

Using all his willpower, Steve turns his neck. There’s a small table next to the bed with a tall glass of water and a few aspirin laid out with an index card next to it. _Drink this when you wake up. Trust me._ , the card says in neat cursive. With great effort, Steve gets himself up to a sitting position. It hurts like utter hell. It’s only then that he remembers that yeah, he got into a fight with _Brock Rumlow_ and his entire stomach is probably one giant bruise from when the guy kneed him. Not to mention the bruises from where Rumlow had him pinned to the wall. Sitting up feels like getting hit by a truck all over again and the aspirin is basically the only thing he can care about. He grabs the aspirin, pops them in his mouth and then drains half the glass of water in one go. It’s not until he puts the glass down that he looks down.

Bucky is on the floor, sleeping in a navy sleeping bag. He’s shirtless and snoring softly. Light is pouring in from the window onto his face, which seems calm and almost child-like with his hair mussed and mouth slightly agape. Steve wishes that he had his sketchpad, as creepy as that may be. But the sad fact is that he doesn’t. That doesn’t stop him from taking a selfish moment just to look, since this is probably the first and last time he’ll ever wake-up sort of next to this beautiful, sleeping Bucky Barnes.

And then, as if God couldn’t let Steve have this one, small moment in the giant cluster fuck that is his life, Steve’s phone begins to vibrate. _Loudly_.

It takes Steve by surprise, the vibration against his skin making him jump. Even though Steve’s in his clothes from the night before, it hadn’t occurred to him that his phone would still be in the back pocket of his jeans. Fumbling, Steve gets the phone out and silences it; it’s his mother calling at _ten fucking am_ on a Saturday. (Though, to be fair, Steve is usually awake and working at this point, so it’s pretty reasonable to expect him to be functional.) Bucky grunts, shifts a little, but seems to stay sleeping, thank goodness. Once the call goes to voicemail and Steve turns his vibrate off, Steve checks his texts from last night and this morning.

He’s got ten. All from Sam. He vaguely remembers that Bucky texted Sam the night before, but he hadn’t thought to even look at what he said. Steve trusts him. But that doesn’t stop him from checking now.

_Steve: Steve’s not feeling too hot. Going to take him to my room to sleep it off. He won’t be back tongiht. —Bucky Barnes_

_Sam: sounds good. make good cohices._

_you fuys have sex yet?_

_you get it rogers_

_also I like how your bf texted me to make sure it was okay that he was takin u home_

_ur probably havin a better night than I am_

_holy shit rumlow’s looking for you and bucky hope ur hiding_

_He’s real mad but I don’t think he remembers what you actually look like_

_Barnes is so dead though_

_Hope you rock his world because tomorrow it’s totally gonna end rumlows got a black eye_

_Morning star shine. When’re you coming back? (If ever)_

Steve restrains the urge to groan audibly. He shoots back a quick, _Just woke up. Nothing weird happened you asshole_ before slipping his phone back into his pocket. He shuts his eyes rubs his temples for a moment, hoping that maybe when he opens them up again the world’ll make sense again. Or at least stop rocking so much.

“Mornin’,” Bucky says from the floor. Steve opens his eyes in time to see Bucky sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. His chest is hairy and he makes this silly, squinty face while he stretches. Steve concludes that his life is some sort of cosmic joke. “You feelin’ like you’re dead yet?”

“I think I’m in hell,” Steve says.

Bucky barks out a laugh. “You know, most people who wake-up next to me say that they’re in heaven.”

Normally Steve would blush, but he just groans and flops back onto Bucky’s bed. “Good to know you’re only attracted to sadomasochists. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Then you’re in luck, since only a sadomasochist would pick a fight with Brock Rumlow.” Steve winces. “Not your shining moment, buddy.”

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve mutters, but Bucky laughs. “Can you stop that? It’s making my head feel like it’s gonna explode.”

“You gotta stop bein’ so funny then,” Bucky says, which is stupid because Bucky is _much_ funnier than Steve. And more attractive. And Steve watches as Bucky gets out of the sleeping bag and Bucky is _much_ more muscular than Steve. Not that anyone wouldn’t expect that; it’s just that they’re pretty amazing in real life. It’s like that moment in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy steps into the technicolor Oz from black and white Kansas. Bucky’s muscles are beautiful. And are next to Steve. In the morning. And, Jesus Christ, Steve has to look away before something even more embarrassing than the previous night happens. Bucky gets up and stretches again, groaning in an obscene way that he really needs to think about before he does it again. “Want somethin’ to eat?” he asks, scratching his head. Steve looks over again and shit, he’s wearing nothing but boxers.

“I should probably get back,” Steve says, staring at the ceiling since he’s worried that Bucky’s posters would look back at him with judgmental eyes. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says. He walks over to the closet and opens it up. There’s not much in there. A few shirts hanging, a small laundry hamper half-full and a few shelves with not much on them. Bucky grabs a shirt from the top of the hamper and pulls it on. “Lame, but understandable.” He plods over to Steve and holds out his hand. “Gimme your phone.”

“I’m not drunk anymore; I can send my own texts.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. A piece of his hair is flopping into his eyes and Steve’s hand aches to push it out of the way. “Yeah, but I ain’t gonna send you a text. I’m gonna give you my number.”

“Why?”

Bucky drops his hand and frowns. “You don’t want it?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused and… well, he sounds a little hurt, even.

And in that moment Steve decides that he never wants to be the cause of Bucky’s face falling like that ever again.

Steve shakes his head too quickly. “No!” It’s too emphatic and Steve has to take a second to put himself back together. “I’ve… Just dragged you through a lot in the past twelve hours. It’s just surprising that you’d… want to be in contact?” It seems lame, but Bucky smiles and glances away sheepishly, and Steve thinks that maybe he hasn’t screwed this—this? when did whatever this is become a this?—up too badly yet.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, rubbing his chin. “We’ve still got the project, which we’re supposed to work on in a few hours, by the way. Plus, if Rumlow catches up to you I wanna know. I hate that guy and I wouldn’t mind breakin’ his nose, even if you gotta be the excuse to do it.” He pauses. “But—“

The phone is in Steve’s hand before he can think about it. “Here,” he says, handing it to Bucky.

Bucky bites down on his bottom lip, takes the phone from Steve’s hand and the way that his fingers brush his is completely in Steve’s imagination, it’s gotta be, because a moment later Bucky pulls away and starts typing into his contact information into Steve’s phone . “You’ll text me when you get back, yeah?” Bucky asks when he hands the phone back.

“It’s ten am on a Saturday. There’s only so much trouble I can get into.”

“But I kinda feel responsible for you now. I’ll feel like all this was a waste if you end up fallin’ into a lake or somethin’ on the way back to your place.”

“I’m not _that_ much of a bad luck magnet, Bucky.”

“‘Course you’re not. You met me, didn’t you?”

Bucky is grinning, hair still flopping in his face and Steve’s the most unlucky guy on earth.

**…**

Steve texts Bucky when he gets back to his dorm.

_Didn’t fall in a lake. -Steve_

Bucky’s answer comes just seconds after.

_Glad to hear it. Do your homework. Getting beaten up is not excuse._

For some reason, Steve texts back: _What would be?_

There’s a pause before Bucky’s response and it’s enough to make Steve’s heart beat a little faster, worried that maybe he’d been reading into this too much, thinking that the signs of friendship were real when they obviously won’t.

And then the phone buzzes and Steve can breathe again.

_Hmm… Losing a limb, maybe. Depends. You can write without a leg, but I’ll give you a night off if you lose an arm. Something happens to a family member gets you a free pass. A sordid love affair, maybe, but it depends on with who._

Steve blushes, shoves his phone into his desk drawer and tries to focus on J.D. Salinger.

It doesn’t really work.

**…**

They meet up again that evening, deciding that they both need a few extra hours to work and recover.

“Thought you were some big party monster,” Bucky chides as Steve sits down on his floor again. “Doin’ work on a Saturday night doesn’t seem cool enough for ya.”

“Isn’t it in your fraternity by-laws that you have to win at least one game of beer pong before you can go to sleep on weekends?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, grabbing some things from his desk—including a pizza box, which he unceremoniously dumps into Steve’s lap—before settling down next to Steve. “Beer pong is for weeknights. On weekends we got a grinding quota.”

“How many people?” Steve says, setting the pizza box down next to him.

Bucky gives him a weird look. “Only one, if you really like them,” he says, then clears his throat. “Eat the pizza,” he says. “If you don’t, then it’s just gonna go downstairs and Dum Dum’ll devour it before the sun rises.”

“He’s in our class, right?”

Bucky nods. “Jeez, Stevie, you gotta talk to more people.” Steve’s about to argue, but Bucky holds up a finger. “Asking Clint Barton for a pencil once doesn’t count as socializing. Neither does gettin’ Brock Rumlow to beat you up.” His voice gets quieter, less joking. “I get you’re shy, that’s okay. It’s who you are. But you’re a good guy, real funny. But you didn’t talk to anybody last night, just hung out at the side. And if that’s what you wanna do, it’s your choice, but I think people’d like you if you gave ‘em a chance, y’know?”

Steve looks down at his own hands, ink-stained and small. “You sound pretty sure for someone who meet me on Wednesday.”

From his periphery, Steve sees Bucky shrug. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character.” He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own. “Eat the pizza, squirt.”

“I dunno Bucky, I’m not sure that you really want me to eat this pizza. Maybe you’re just being polite.”

Bucky pokes Steve hard in the side, right where he’s bruised. Steve makes an undignified yelp, which sends Bucky into a fit of giggles. “You suck,” Steve says and he really means it.

“Then you’re a good judge of character.”

Bucky’s eyes trailing down to Steve’s crotch is just Steve’s imagination, right?

Steve reaches for the pizza box.

**…**

The next few days fly by, and before Steve knows it he and Bucky are printing out their final paper with the Inkjet that sits under Bucky’s desk.

“So,” Bucky says as he staples it. “This is it, huh?”

Steve swallows hard. He doesn’t want this to be over.

Truth is, he _never_ wants this project to be over. He wants to keep seeing Bucky. He wants to talk to Bucky under the trees as they change colors, to hold his hand and walk under oaks and maples as the leaves fall down around them. He wants to draw him in colored pencil and charcoal, wants to capture each and every expression he’s seen come over Bucky’s face and keep them with him forever. He wants to throw a snowball at Bucky and see the spring flowers with him.

Steve wants a whole lot of things, which he knows that he can’t have. It’s a nice thought, nonetheless.

“I guess,” Steve says a beat too late to be natural. He tries to shrug it off, to keep the disappointment off his face.

Bucky exhales and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back. “But we could, y’know, hang out and stuff.” Steve must look confused because Bucky quickly adds, “If you wanna. You’re probably busy and all.”

“Yeah,” Steve says and doesn’t realize what he’s saying until Bucky physically droops, embarrassment clear on his face. Steve’s voice comes out quickly, words almost slurring together: “I mean, not that I’m busy that I’m… Not busy. And…” He clears his throat. “Yeah, we should hang out. Sometime.”

He doesn’t say _any time_ like he really, really wants to.

Bucky smiles up at him and, well, Steve’s seen Bucky smile a few times now, but it hits him almost as hard as Rumlow did. “Cool,” he says, then grabs the paper from the stapler. He waves it in front of Steve’s face with a flourish. “And with this baby, we’re finished.”

And then, because he’s the least cool human on the planet, Steve blurts out, “I hope we’re not finished.” He winces, waiting for Bucky to laugh, he doesn’t. Bucky just smiles fondly down at Steve and bumps his hand against Steve’s arm in an oddly reassuring way.

“‘Course not,” he says too kindly and Steve wants to die in the best way possible.

**…**

Steve turns in his paper on Friday, then sits down. Bucky says hi and goes up to his usual seat in the back row. Steve sighs and gets his things out for class, ready for whatever creepy thing Schmidt has to say to them today. 

But then there’s someone unexpected next to him. “Steve?”

It’s Peggy Carter, looking impeccable in a retro-looking black button-down tucked neatly into high-waisted jeans. She’s got on a short red scarf made of silk, tied in a small knot at the side of her throat. The shade of her scarf matches her lipstick perfectly, which somehow makes Steve even more nervous when he says, “Yeah?”

“Can I sit?” she asks, gesturing to the seat on Steve’s side, which usually stays empty. Steve nods. “Thank you,” she says, sitting down with fluid grace.

Steve looks at her from the corner of his eye. She takes out a Moleskine notebook and a red pen.

“I heard about last Friday night,” she says. “The way that you stood-up for Peter Parker.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He hadn’t known the kid’s name. “Do you know him?”

She nods. “He’s in my economics class,” she explains. “Why he’s pledging Psi U, I have no idea, but everyone has their own tastes.” She pauses. “I’ve seen your drawings. They’re very impressive.”

Steve shrugs, blushing. “Thanks,” he manages to mumble.

She chuckles softly. “You’re a modest one, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’m talking to someone as smart as you,” he says, hazarding a glance over.

Peggy rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “I think we should have lunch sometime,” she says.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Me too.”

They chat until class starts, with Steve holding his own surprisingly well. It’s not until Schmidt starts the lecture that Steve remembers to pine after Bucky. When he’s sure that Peggy is focused on taking notes and won’t notice him, Steve glances over his shoulder at the back row.

Bucky’s sitting there, book open and pen poised over his notebook, but he’s frowning down at a blank page. Usually by this point he’s bent down over his notebook, with at least half a page filled with his chicken scratch handwriting. But today he’s got nothing, nothing at all.

Steve turns around before it gets weird and tries to focus. Whatever. Bucky’ll be in touch. They’ll hang out. And Steve will try to help him, if something’s wrong.

**…**

Steve spends a lot of time staring at his phone during the next week, but Bucky doesn’t text him.

**…**

Steve sees Bucky around, but can’t get any sort of reaction out of him besides a hurried, “Hey” as Bucky walks by. The problem is that Bucky’s always surrounded by a group of people; Steve can never find a moment to talk to him. It doesn’t help that Steve starts eating with Peggy and her friend Lorraine, with Sam and Sharon joining them at times. 

Once Steve sees Bucky across the dining hall and they lock eyes. But then Peggy asks him a question and Steve needs to answer, so he looks away. When he looks back, Bucky’s gone.

Things are going well for himself, Steve tells himself. He tries to remind himself that Bucky’s popular. He’s in a fraternity; he’s good-looking. The fact that he acknowledges Steve at all is a bit of a miracle, that Steve shouldn’t get too greedy. He has tests to study for, papers to write and art to make. Having Bucky Barnes want his attention would just get in the way.

**…**

It doesn’t stop Steve from typing a million different messages into his phone each night, but never having the guts to press send.

**…**

Steve spends the first chilly day of the year in the art studio, working on a project. It’s for his Drawing class. He thought the class would be a piece of cake; he thought he knew how to draw. But it’s turned out to be his most difficult class. The assignments force Steve out of his comfort zone and it makes him reevaluate the ways that he looks at shapes and lines or the shading of a simple object. It’s also his favorite class. He knows he spends too long on the assignments, but he’s excited to try out the techniques he learns and he wants to impress his professor.

It’s almost two a.m. when the door opens for the first time in hours. It’s a Friday night in early October and all of the other students left hours ago. Steve looks up and nearly drops his pen. It must be some kind of mirage. Sure, he’s not in a desert, but it’s 2 in the morning on a Friday night and Steve’s working on homework, so the situation is almost as desperate. The fact that there’s a to-go cup of coffee in either one of Bucky’s hands just solidifies the feeling of illusion.

But then he speaks. “Hey there,” he says, sounding more somber than usual. “Jim said you were still workin’.”

“Jim?”

“Morita,” Bucky says, taking a hesitant step into the room. “He’s in your drawing class. We’ve been over this before, y’know.” He pauses. “I brought you coffee,” he says, holding one of the cups out like a peace offering.

And then Steve realizes just how angry he is.“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, resolutely not looking at Bucky. Okay, well, maybe he peeks. “Art majors only.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Must be real inconvenient for anybody who takes an art class for a distribution requirement.” He comes into the room, which is the exact opposite of what Steve wants. He doesn’t say anything until he’s next to Steve. He sets one of the cup down next to Steve’s supplies. “That okay there?”

“You didn’t need to.” Steve decides that the shape of the eyes in his portrait aren’t quite right. He tries fixing them, focusing intently on the canvas. If that also makes Bucky leave, well, that’s just a perk.

Bucky’s quiet, but he doesn’t leave. He just hovers next to Steve, watching him draw. It makes Steve want to scream. They stay like that for a few minutes, this unyielding tension between them until Bucky quietly says,“You never texted me.”

And that makes Steve look.

“What?” he asks, maybe a bit too sharply.

Bucky runs his tongue over his bottom lip and stares intently at Steve’s portrait. “I…” He sighs. “I dunno. This sounds stupid, but I wanted to be friends with you.” He looks back at Steve and his eyes are so startlingly blue in the bright lights of the art studio. Steve’s seen them enough that he should know that, but they always seem to take him by surprise. “I didn’t expect you to be the kinda guy who gets a gal and forgets about everybody else? Because it’s great that you got a girlfriend, but—”

“I don’t… what?” Steve asks, looking back at Bucky and setting his pencil down. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Bucky looks at Steve with wide eyes, like he’s shocked. He glances away, exhales and it seems to Steve that maybe he looks a little relieved. It’s probably just a trick of his own mind. “So you’re not goin’ out with Peggy Carter?”

“She’s got a boyfriend from back home, Howard. He goes to MIT and is gonna either save or destroy the world, doesn’t know which yet. I don’t stand a shot.”

“Don’t talk yourself down like that. Anybody’d be lucky to—“

“Weren’t you just saying I was a crappy friend a minute ago?”

Bucky chuckles, smiling for the first time since he walked in and Steve should be madder than this. But Bucky pulls out the stool next to Steve’s and sits down, legs spreading in a horribly distracting kind of way. He takes a sip of his coffee before speaking. “I guess I just… I wanna know if you…” He groans, runs his free hand through his hair, pushing it back. “Did I do something?” he asks, eyes squinting and nose scrunching, like he’s smelled something bad, like the way he phrased the question came out wrong. “I mean, I thought we were…” He groans again, adds a deep sigh to the end. “I sound so dumb.”

Steve swallows. “What? No. I mean…” Steve bites down on his lip for a moment, thinking. “Maybe we’re just both too inarticulate to be friends.” And Bucky cracks another smile. He looks at Steve with this fond, happy expression that goes straight to Steve’s stomach, causing it to bubble up like he’s drunk too much champagne. “But… I guess I was just waiting for you to…” His throat goes dry and his voice is rough. “Guys like you beat me up in high school. I didn’t think you were serious.”

The smile fades. “I’m serious,” Bucky says. He hesitates for a moment, obviously wanting to say something else. But he doesn’t. He swallows instead, then reaches out and touches Steve’s shoulder. His grip is firm and Steve’s whole body tenses up. “I like you,” he says. “I dunno why, because you’re a punk, but you make me smile and… bein’ around you is…” He drops his hand, pulls it back to his side. “Well, it’s nice. That’s all.”

Steve wants to tell Bucky that he feels the same. That he’s sorry he was angry and that he doesn’t want to ever go so long between seeing each other that he forgets the color of Bucky’s eyes. He wants to ask if the small touches mean something, and if Bucky would ever even consider tiny Steve Rogers.

But Steve doesn’t do any of those things. “Can I draw you?” Steve blurts out, breaking the strange tension between the two of them. Bucky looks a little taken aback, so Steve backtracks. “I’m, uh, working on this portrait and it’s… well, it’s bad. And maybe if I could—“

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says and it’s probably just the light, but Bucky’s cheeks look a little redder than usual. “Yeah… Sure, buddy. What do you, uh, want me to do?”

“Maybe—“

“I’m not gonna take off my clothes,” he says quickly, averting his gaze. “If that’s okay.”

Steve laughs. “What, I gotta buy you dinner first?”

“Honestly,” Bucky says, looking Steve straight in the eye. “All you’d have to do is tell me you want me and I’m yours.”

There’s a beat, where Steve’s just looking at Bucky and Bucky at Steve with a strange mask of earnestness, to earnest for a joke and—

“Shut up,” Steve says, rolling his eyes, blushing furiously and turning the page over in his sketchbook. “Stop teasing me and, uh, go sit up there.” He gestures over to a stool sitting on the pedestal in the middle of the room, set-up for the models that come to class. “And try to look like you’re thinking about something, though that may be kind of a stretch since you got rocks for a brain.”

“Hey now,” Bucky says, grabbing his coffee and moving over to the appointed pedestal. “Most people think a physics major’s a bit more legit than art.”

“Yeah, but do you know who painted the poster on your wall?” Steve says as he begins sketching a broad outline of Bucky’s face, glancing back up at his subject every so often, biting down on his bottom lip with concentration.

“Which one?” Bucky asks.

“The farmer.”

“John Steuart Curry.” Steve’s head pops up and Bucky grins. “I know the provenance, Stevie. I ain’t no art major, but I look things up before they go on my wall.” Steve doesn’t say anything, just looks down and keeps sketching. Steve doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing. It seems like Bucky’s always a step ahead of him and it’s all Steve can do to not fall behind. When Bucky realizes that Steve’s not gonna raise to the bait, he keeps going. “‘Sides, I took an art history class last semester. American Art and Culture 1900-1945. Learned all about Curry and the other Regionalists with a capital R. I like the magical realists more, though. Albright? Now that’s some neat stuff.”

Of course he’d know Albright.

“You like American art, Stevie?”

“Precisionism,” Steve says because it’s true. “Charles Demuth, especially.”

Bucky clears his throat. “ _Among the rain / and lights / I saw the figure 5 / in gold / on a red / firetruck / moving / tense / unheeded / to gong clangs / siren howls / and wheels rumbling / through the dark city_.”

By the third line, Steve stops drawing. He doesn’t look at Bucky, doesn’t trust himself. He lets himself pause, try to remember how to breathe. _I Saw the Figure Five in Gold_ is one of Demuth’s most famous paintings, stored in the permanent collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Even though the painting is of the number 5 in New York City, it’s actually a portrait of William Carlos Williams, based on the poet he wrote. It’s done in a sort of secret code. Demuth liked painting portraits of his friends in this way and oftentimes used codes in his work. It was a way of expressing himself without having to reveal his secrets, like the fact that he was gay. Williams was Demuth’s best friend and doctor, helped a sickly Demuth through his rough times.

When Bucky finishes reciting the poem that inspired the piece, Steve has to force himself to respond. “Yeah,” he says, trying to keep Bucky from seeing just how much that affected him. “Exactly.”

Bucky chuckles. “I memorized it in middle school… fifth grade, I think? For some poetry unit that we were doin’. Had to say it in front of my class and I thought a poem about a firetruck was cool. Never forgot it. I guess that’s a good thing ‘cus now I can actually understand it.”

Steve doesn’t respond, just tries to put his pen back to the paper. Bucky seems to get it and just sits there contentedly, a small smile on his face—almost a smirk, actually—taking an occasional sip of coffee.

They’re not done until 6 a.m. and Steve’s pretty sure it’s the best thing he’s ever drawn.

The way he’s captured Bucky is nothing like his usual portraits. There’s a sense of movement, of happiness in the half-smile Bucky’s got, a fondness in Bucky’s eyes for whatever is off to the left of the paper. There’s a brightness, a lightness to it and Steve’s honestly not sure how he even drew it. Portraiture’s never come naturally to him; that’s why his class has been such a struggle. But it’s like he’s had an artistic breakthrough drawing Bucky, like all the techniques that he hasn’t been able to grasp this semester just came to him all at once. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s just never had a subject like Bucky, someone who makes Steve want to prove himself, show the best he can be.

When he’s finished, Bucky—looking a bit worse for wear, to be honest—gets up and comes to look at the piece over Steve’s shoulder. At first he doesn’t say anything; Steve feels like he can barely breathe. Then he lets his hand rest on Steve’s shoulder, gentle but solid. “Jeez, Stevie,” he says after a quiet minute. “You’re real good.”

And Steve thinks:

_It’s not me. It’s you._

_I can only do it like this because it’s you._

_Do you realize what you do to me?_

_It’d be a sin to see that smile and not want to document it, to make it perfect._

_But it’s not nearly as perfect as you._

_I like you a whole lot and it scares me._

_I don’t want you to leave, though._

But all he says is “Thanks.” He looks up and over his shoulder. “I really mean it, thanks.”

Bucky smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “You know what you gotta do now though?” Steve doesn’t say anything, but raises an eyebrow. “You gotta come with me to breakfast because _Jesus Christ_ do I need a pot of coffee.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, hopping off the stool and shutting his large sketch pad. He lets himself take Bucky in, with his rumpled clothes and tired eyes. Steve can’t help but laugh. “I’m buying.”

**…**

That morning, Steve learns that Bucky prefers his coffee black, “or one of those pumpkin spice lattes from Starbucks, but don’t tell anybody, since that’s not somethin’ a grown man should admit.” He only likes eggs scrambled well-done and likes to dip his bacon in maple syrup. He also learns that when Bucky’s tired, he doesn’t so much notice where his legs are underneath a booth at Denny’s, or care that his ankle’s been touching Steve’s for the past forty-five minutes.

Steve smiles at his french toast and realizes, somewhat belatedly, that this is probably his favorite night of college so far. And it’s all thanks to Bucky Barnes.

**…**

“The Sigma Pis are having a costume party,” Sam tells after Steve wakes-up from long nap. “We got an invitation under the door while you were snoozing away. It’s real fancy; calligraphy and everything. Seems a bit much for some knock-off Halloween party.”

“Huh?” Steve asks, sitting up on his bed. Sam walks over from his desk and hands Steve the invitation. 

“It’s addressed to us personally, too. Must be that someone wants us there.” Sam asks with his lip quirked because he’s an asshole. “I wonder who.”

Steve rolls his eyes and looks down at the invitation:

_To Mr. Rogers and Mr. Wilson (Summers 111),_

_The brothers of Sigma Pi would be delighted for your attendance at our annual Spooky Boogie Party this evening in McCoy Hall. Costumes mandatory._

_Sincerely,_

_The Brothers of Sigma Pi_

“You got a costume?” Sam asks.

“Nah, but I’ll just borrow your clothes and go as the biggest asshole in town.”

Sam rolls his eyes and plucks the invitation from Steve’s hands. “Guess you’re going solo.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “I’m not going at all.”

**…**

Steve tells himself that he’s too tired to go, worn out from his all nighter. There’s some other reason that Steve doesn’t want to go, something a little selfish and small. He knows that, no matter what he does, it can’t match up to the previous night. He doesn’t want the illusion to be shattered, this small happy world he’s created for himself to be broken up somehow. So he resigns himself to a night of catching up on _True_ _Blood_ alone in his room while Sam heads out to the party.

But at midnight, while Steve’s watching _True Blood_ with the lights turned off, Steve gets a text. It’s from Bucky.

_You coming?_

It takes about four minutes for Steve to put on an all-black ensemble and to circle his eyes with thick lines of the chalky black eyeliner he keeps around for no apparent reason.

 _Yeah_. He texts back. _Be there in ten._

_Looking forward to it. :)_

**…**

McCoy Hall is dark and covered in fake cobwebs, which doesn’t really surprise Steve. Even though it’s nowhere near Halloween, each of the fraternities does some kind of Halloween-themed party during October; it’s a school tradition that each of them tries to show the others up. It just happens that the Sigma Pis are first in line this year and the campus seems to have been waiting for this night. Bodies are packed tightly together in the lounge of McCoy, students grinding and screaming with cups of warm beer in hand. Steve thinks it’ll be impossible to find Bucky in the crowd, what with all of the masked strangers in an impenetrable human knot around him.

But surprisingly, it’s not.

He’s the one grinding on Natasha Romanoff on the dance floor, hands sliding up and down her lithe, spandex-covered body, both of them looking like they’re enjoying every moment of the contact. Bucky throws back his head, yelling something lost to the sounds of the crowd and the pounding music.

Steve’s able to get back to Summers, turn off his phone and get the eyeliner off before he cries, which feels like a victory in its own small way.

**…**

When Steve wakes-up and turns his phone back on, he’s got eight messages, all from Bucky. He tells himself not to check them, that they can’t be what he wants to see, but he reads them anyways, surprised at how each sounds more drunken and desperate than the last.

12:34: _Where are you?!_

12:44: _Thought you were coming?_

12:52: _Text me when you get here!_

1:45: _im sad ur not here_

2:22: _steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve come pls_

2:24: _did I do sonethin?_

2:48: _dont ignore me again I dont wsnt you to ighore me nemore_

3:21: _im going to bed_

It’s only eight and Sam’s not back, which means he probably had a better night than Steve did. So Steve sighs, rubs at his eyes and gets out of bed. At least he’s not hungover; he has that much going for him. But what confuses Steve is why Bucky would be so invested in him coming to the party if he was going to hook-up with Natasha Romanoff. It was weird. And why would he have told Steve that he was going to bed if he was just going to go to bed with someone else? Too much information.

He thinks about the way that Bucky’s ankle had touched his at Denny’s and wonders if Natasha thinks about the way Bucky smiles when he’s got his big hands on her waist. Probably. Bucky’s smile is hard to ignore.

Steve stretches, puts on his bathroom flip-flops and grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste from his cabinet. He’s got another assignment due in his digital arts class tomorrow that he needs to work on; it’ll probably take most of the day, so he can’t be lazy. Steve heads to his door, opens it and—

Nearly trips by the large pile of Bucky Barnes sleeping in the hallway outside his door.

Even though Steve knocks into Bucky and swears, Bucky doesn’t do more than make a small snuffling noise. Steve takes a breath, not entirely sure what to do with Bucky and whether it’s even his responsibility to deal with him at all. Steve knows that Natasha lives in Summers Hall with him, upstairs on the girls’ floor. If she kicked him out, it’s not Steve’s problem to deal with Bucky, right?

But it’s _Bucky._ He’s making huffing small noises as he sleeps, curled up and using his own arm as a pillow. Steve kneels down next to him, places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and shakes gently. “Bucky,” Steve says. Bucky just makes a pleased sort of noise and grabs Steve’s hand, intertwines his fingers with his and—

This is definitely not something Steve was expecting.

Steve clears his throat and disentangles his hand from Bucky’s. “Bucky.” He gives Bucky a bit of a shove to the shoulder, a lot less gentle than before. “Bucky, you gotta wake-up.”

Then Bucky groans, which Steve takes as a good sign. It implies consciousness rather than sleepy snuggling. “Don’t wanna,” he says and Steve tries not to find it charming.

“Bucky, you’re on the floor.”

“So what?” he grumbles, eyes still closed.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Bucky, you’re in the hallway in Summers Hall, outside of my room.” That gets Bucky to crack an eye open. “C’mon, at least get in here.” He gestures to the room behind him.

Bucky groans again, looks up at Steve with bloodshot eyes. “I don’t remember how I got here,” he says, low and quiet. His voice is scratchy. “Steve, how’d I get here?”

Steve can’t meet his eyes. “You were probably in Natasha’s room and she kicked you out or something.”

Bucky looks… skeptical. “Natasha?” he asks. “Why would I be in her room?”

Having to explain this to Bucky makes Steve feel almost ill. There goes the small joy of not being hungover; this is so much worse. “You probably hooked-up,” he says simply, hoping that he never has to explain something like this to Bucky ever again.

Bucky snorts. “Believe me,” he says, pulling himself up with a wince. “Not interested.”

“You two were dancing last night.”

Bucky looks straight at Steve, blue eyes cold. “Thought you didn’t make it last night,” he says.

Steve looks away, mutters, “Thought you didn’t remember last night.”

“Whatever,” Bucky says, voice chilly. “I’m gonna—“

“I went,” Steve interrupts. Bucky stops moving and stares. “It’s just… I don’t really like parties. And I walked in, saw you dancing with Natasha and… Well, I left.”

“You didn’t respond to my texts,” Bucky says. “I sent you three.”

“Eight, actually.” Bucky winces. “I turned off my phone. I didn’t get them until a minute ago.”

Bucky groans. “Jesus, Steve, I thought you’d gotten hurt or somethin’.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I don’t get beaten up every time I leave my room, Bucky.”

“Oh, I forgot. You only let yourself get beat up on special occasions.”

“Big talk from a guy who spent the night sleeping in the hallway in a dorm halfway across campus without even getting laid.”

“I wanted to see you,” Bucky says.

There’s a beat.

“You sent me eight texts.”

“I may’ve overdid it.”

Steve lets himself smile, but looks away, down at the scratchy industrial blue carpeting of the hallway. “You’re real weird, Buck.”

There’s a pause, and when Steve looks back, Bucky’s grinning. “Yeah, well, you like me anyway.”

“Go home and take a shower. You reek.”

“Fuck off,” he says without heat before standing up. He holds out a hand to Steve, who takes it, even though it should definitely be the other way around. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” he says, not letting go of Steve’s hand and squeezing it instead.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “See you tomorrow.”

With a final smile, Bucky drops Steve’s hand, turns around and walks down the hall.

He’s still wearing the remnants of his costume, which involved a pair of leather pants.

Steve hates that Bucky’s leaving, but doesn’t particularly mind the view as he goes.

(And if his shower that morning is cold, it’s nobody’s business at all.)

**…**

After class on Monday, Bucky swings by Steve’s row. “Heya Stevie,” he says, leaning against the table. “I was wonderin’ if you wanted to grab some coffee before you go to open studio.”

“Like right now?”

Bucky grins. “If you’re not too busy.”

Steve shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not busy at all.”

“Cool.”

Peggy clears her throat as Steve packs up his stuff to head out. “Hello there Bucky.”

“Oh, hey Peggy. Didn’t see ya there.” His voice seems a little colder than usual, but when he looks back at Steve, his eyes are warm. “You ready?”

“Stop rushing me,” Steve says as he stands up. “Not my fault that you can’t be patient when there’s a pumpkin spice latte on the line.”

Bucky elbows Steve in the side. “C’mon Stevie, I told you that in confidence.”

“Yes _Stevie_ ,” Peggy says as she stands. “You really shouldn’t go about telling other peoples’ secrets.” Steve glances over and Peggy’s smile is beautiful, poised and _malicious_.

Steve glances back at Bucky, who is looking at Peggy and, well, his expression is cold and cut-off. “Well, as far as secrets gettin’ out, this one ain’t so bad.” He tugs at Steve’s sleeve, expression softening. “C’mon Steve, before I turn ninety.”

“Hold on,” Steve says, swatting Bucky’s hand away and turning to Peggy. “I’ll talk to you later, Peggy.”

She nods. “I expect you will, Steve.”

Steve turns around, but Bucky’s not there. He can hear Peggy laughing and Steve looks around to see Bucky walking out of the classroom, Steve’s backpack slung over his shoulder.

**…**

Bucky buys him a latte as apology.

They sit in the campus coffee shop at a small booth, facing each other, each with an eco-friendly, reusable coffee container. Bucky’s is black, Steve’s is silver. Bucky’s got a book out, pretending at doing work, but neither of them are paying attention to anything besides each other.

All things considered, this is the most normal hangout they’ve had outside of their schoolwork.

“Do you not like Peggy?” Steve asks halfway through their drinks.

Bucky’s lip twitches. “I don’t know her well,” he says, then takes a sip.

“You seemed kinda—“

“I feel kinda jealous of her, is all.” He doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes. “You’re together all the time, even if she’s not your girlfriend.” He idly plays with the cap of his to-go container. “You like her, right?”

“She’s my friend.”

Bucky looks up. “But you _like_ her, like, if she were to break up with the MIT guy, you’d wanna go out.”

Steve goes a bit red and shakes his head. “It’s not… It’s not like that, Bucky. I… Maybe, when I first met her, but I… There’s someone else I like.”

Bucky leans in a bit closer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Who?” he asks, then bites down on his bottom lip.

“Not telling.”

Bucky just leans closer, smirking now. “C’mon Stevie, I’ll keep it a secret.”

“I spilled the beans on your latte addiction. How do I knowyou wouldn’t somehow get back at me with it?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Bucky flicks his tongue up and over his top lip and it’s all Steve can do not to shudder. “It’s a secret.”

Bucky’s face falls. “Aw well,” he says, relaxing back into his side of the booth. He sighs and takes a long sip of his drink before saying, quieter, “I could help ya out. If you liked someone. Figure out a romantic rendezvous for the two of your or somethin’.”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t think that it would be worth your time.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“I think it’s unrequited.” He looks away and bites down hard on his lip.

When he glances back at Bucky, his expression is caring. “Sorry,” Bucky says. “That I pried. Didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Steve says, petulantly folding his arms across his chest.

Bucky smiles and… well, that makes Steve not sad at all. “They’re missin’ out, whoever it is that doesn’t like you back. Big time.”

Steve fights back a blush. “I don’t need a pep talk.”  

Bucky takes a deep breath and stretches his legs out from underneath the table. His foot touches Steve’s but doesn’t move. “Ain’t a pep talk if it’s the truth, buddy.” Steve can feel Bucky’s ankle against his. “You’re a catch.”

**…**

That night Steve gets an unexpected text from Peggy:

_You never told me that you are going out with Bucky Barnes._

Steve furrows his eyebrows and texts over his copy of _The Things They Carried_.

_We’re not. Bucky’s not interested._

_Are you so sure about that?_

Steve rolls his eyes, gives up on his reading for the night and heads to bed.

He thinks about Bucky’s ankles and his fingers intertwining with his own when Bucky was sleeping. And Steve can’t but to wonder why, if Bucky thinks he’s such a catch, he wouldn’t have made a move already if he were even the least bit interested. And that must be the answer: he’s not interested.

Steve rolls over, shuts his eyes and wills himself to fall asleep.

**…**

A week later, Steve and Bucky are walking together from the dining hall over to Bucky’s dorm. It’s mid-October and the days are beginning to get colder and chillier. Steve prefers cold weather to warm, but something about the changing of the seasons makes him ill-at-ease, unsure of how to dress from hour-to-hour when the temperatures are okay in the sun but chilling after dark. It’s getting dark as they walk, sun setting early. Not many people are out as the two of them walk and they’re completely alone when Steve begins to shiver.

It’s not a big deal. Steve’s skinny, has asthma and about nine hundred other things wrong with him. It’s pretty natural that he shivers; Steve’s used to it.

Bucky, however, is not.

Steve’s still walking as Bucky wraps his own red scarf around his neck. It’s long on Bucky and almost suffocating on Steve. “Jesus Buck, I can’t breathe in this thing,” he says, trying to pull it off.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand to stop him from escaping. “Uh-uh, I saw you shiver. You’re chilly and barely wearin’ a jacket as it is. I ain’t lettin’ you catch a cold on my watch.” Steve rolls his eyes. His army surplus jacket is _too_ a jacket. It just has a few holes, is all. “My ma knitted that scarf; it’s the best. You’ll be warm in no time.”

Steve wants to argue, but he realizes that this is the first time he’s ever heard Bucky mention his family at all. “Your ma?”

Bucky drops his hand from Steve’s and shoves it into the pocket of his own long, grey coat. “Yeah,” he says. “She liked to knit.” He doesn’t look at Steve, but starts walking again.

It takes Steve a moment to catch-up, both literally and metaphorically. “Oh, ah… Is she…?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Been about two and a half years.”

“Oh. I’m s—“

Bucky shakes his head. “’S not your fault. You don’t need to apologize, Steve.” He pauses. “My sister, her name’s Becky, she’s in the army. Enlisted after she graduated from high school. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“Oh.”

They walk in silence for a minute, Bucky resolutely not looking at Steve. The scarf is warm, but Steve still feels chilled by the lines on Bucky’s forehead, the frown on his face. “Bucky, can we stop?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, buddy, what? Is it your asthma? We can slow—”

Steve closes the space between them, standing up on his tiptoes and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s broad chest. He feels Bucky tense beneath him, but relaxes moments after, chuckling softly in Steve’s ear as he wraps his own arms around Steve. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Steve shrugs, distracted by the way Bucky’s face feels against his hair. “You looked chilly without your scarf, is all.”

Steve begins to pull away, not wanting to misunderstand, to think that this hug is something that it’s not, but Bucky’s grip gets tighter around Steve. “Just another minute,” he says. “This is nice.”

Steve couldn’t say no to Bucky, even if he wanted to, so he lets himself relax, let his head rest against the crook of Bucky’s neck. “Definitely not gonna a cold now.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re really hot.” He can _feel_ Bucky grin. Steve goes red, tries to wiggle out of Bucky’s grasp. “I mean, I didn’t—“

“Oh yes you did,” Bucky says, grip tightening as Steve struggles. “You think I’m hot. Don’t backtrack now, ya punk!”

“Jerk!” Steve spits, forcing himself away at last. Bucky grabs his either side of Steve’s waist and…

And Steve stops struggling.

They’re facing each other, only a foot apart. The wind has mussed Bucky’s hair, a lock of it falling onto his forehead. Steve can hear himself swallow and maybe Bucky can too, because his fingers dig tighter into the fabric of Steve’s jacket. Bucky’s staring down at him, mouth slightly agape, eyes vibrant and blue even in the twilight of early evening. It’s all Steve can do to keep looking, to not look away out of embarrassment or nerves. Bucky’s fingers pull Steve in closer, his eyes never leaving Steve’s. And Steve, well…

Steve shivers.

Bucky swallows and drops his hands from Steve’s waist. He looks down and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon buddy, we gotta get you someplace warm before you catch your death.”

“I’m not that fragile,” Steve argues, voice coming out airy and hoarse. He’s in a daze, helpless as Bucky begins walking, knowing that all he can do is follow.

He thinks he can hear Bucky whisper, “No, you’re not,” but it could just be the sound of the quiet wind rushing by Steve’s ears.

**…**

“I’m gonna make you tea,” Bucky announces when they get into McCoy a few minutes later. The inside of the dorm is warm and inviting. It’s one of the older buildings on campus, insides covered in hardwood and filled with Sigma Pi memorabilia. The fraternity has had their headquarters there for over a hundred years.

“Really Buck, I’m fine,” Steve protests, but Bucky’s already heading down the hall in the opposite direction of his room. “Where’re we going?” Steve asks, tagging along behind. It’s warm in the hall, but he doesn’t take off Bucky’s scarf. He doesn’t let himself dwell on why.

Bucky looks behind his shoulder to say, “The kitchen,” before turning back around. He hasn’t looked at Steve for more than a few seconds since, well. “You like green tea, right?”

Steve nods, but knows Bucky isn’t looking. “Yeah.”

“Good, I think that’s all we got. None of us drink much tea in here.”

They round a corner and end up in a lounge. It’s comfortable looking with wood finishings and a few mismatching couches and plush chairs. There’s a fireplace that looks like it hasn’t been used in some time. It’s not until he sees one stray orange cobweb in the corner that Steve realizes that this was where the Spooky Boogie party was. It has seemed much larger filled with people and without the furniture.

“If you… Can you just wait here for a minute?” Bucky asks. His arms are crossed and he doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Um,” Steve says, but before he can even say yes, Bucky’s walking away, looking down.

Unsure of what to do, Steve sits down on a leather couch. It makes a small huffing sound under his weight and Steve wonders vaguely what sort of stuff has happened on this couch.

But that just makes him think of, well, whatever just happened.

Steve’s had his first kiss. It wasn’t spectacular. It was at overnight camp—an ill-fated attempt on his mother’s part to have Steve make some friends in the wilderness, since he couldn’t seem to make any in Brooklyn—on Casino Night. They frequently had theme nights and most, like Casino Night, were mildly inappropriate. The Pow Wow they had one night was so incredibly offensive that even at the tender and ignorant age of thirteen, Steve knew that what they were doing was probably pretty wrong.

Casino Night was held in the ‘recreation room’ of the biggest cabin on the campsite. There were shiny streamers all over the room and counselors in clip-on bow ties manned craps and roulette games on fold-up tables. Steve had a natural aversion to gambling, so he had stuck to the sidelines, watching his cabin mates bet chips and trade them in for typical canteen fare like orange soda and ring pops. It was almost nine o’clock when Carol Danvers came over to him and asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

Steve had nodded, followed her out of the Recreation Room and over to in front of her cabin. “You’re cute,” she said.

Steve had blushed. “Thanks.”

She grinned, put a hand on either side of Steve’s face and kissed him.

It was real short and she had shot into her cabin right after, which had a big sign on the door saying, “No boys allowed” but it had been enough to make Steve walk around in a daze for half the night. (He had gotten into big trouble afterwards; his counselors were furious.)

And once, in high school, he and Miles Morales had snuck beneath the bleachers in the gym a few times, but it had been more a measure of convenience than any real connection. They were the only two members of Brooklyn Heights’s LGBTQA Society and they decided that they didn’t want to put the future of the club in jeopardy by continuing whatever it was that they were doing.

So Steve knows how to kiss.

But what Steve doesn’t know is what _that was_.

He’s never experienced such a strange moment of tension, where the world seemed to slow down around him until it was just him, Bucky and the sound of the wind rushing past his ears. Steve can feel himself tense up just thinking about it. So it couldn’t be just him, right? There was definitely something there.

Or maybe it’s just Steve.

Bucky Barnes is good-looking, in a fraternity and has just about everything going for him. Steve has no idea if Bucky’s even interested in _guys_ , let alone Steve. Even if, by some miracle, Bucky is queer, he can probably get any guy he wants.There’s no reason that—

“It can’t be!” Steve nearly jumps when he realizes that he’s no longer alone in the room. “Is it him? In the flesh? _Steve Rogers_?”

“Huh?” Steve asks.

There’re four guys in the room, but the one doing the talking is Dum Dum, from Steve’s English class. “You know, I was beginning to think that Bucky was lying about spending all that time with you.”

“What he means to say,” pipes up Jim Morita, who Steve finally knows due to Bucky’s badgering. “Is that none of us have ever seen you around here.”

“Qui est-il?” asks the one guy Steve doesn’t recognize.

Gabe Jones—also from English class—replies, “C’est Steve Rogers, le petit ami de Bucky.”

Steve doesn’t know French, but the way that Gabe’s looking at him makes him feel like he’s the butt of some joke.

But the guy’s face lights up as he walks across the room to Steve, holding out his hand. “It is good to meet you at last!” he says as Steve shakes his hand. “I am Jacques Dernier.”

“Um, hi. I’m Steve.”

Dum Dum’s grinning as he takes a seat on the couch next to Steve. He casually throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he calls to Gabe, “Get Falsworth in here. He’s gonna flip when he sees who Bucky brought home.”

“Bucky’s in the kitchen,” Steve says, floundering a bit. “He’ll be back in a minute.”

“Downright domestic.” Gabe and Jim roll their eyes as Dum Dum laughs at his own joke.

All of Bucky’s fraternity brothers—because that’s who these guys are, a few other guys in Sigma Pi; Dum Dum is Bucky’s Big Brother, even—are sitting around Steve now, each looking at him expectantly. “Do you guys want me to go?” Steve asks, which makes Dum Dum laugh.

But it’s Jim who speaks, “Of course not!” Steve can feel himself relax a bit. He’s not sure about the secretive, arcane rules of fraternities, but he wasn’t sure that him being in their lounge unsupervised wasn’t a breech of some weird code or another. “No, we’re all just curious. Since—“

“Bucky, he speaks fondly of you,” Jacques interrupts in his heavily accented English. “And often.”

“Can’t shut up, really,” Gabe says. “Bucky’s always telling us that you said this or that, that the two of you did something, went somewhere.”

Jim laughs. “Kind of annoying, actually.”

“Someone’s really gotta get Falsworth in here,” Dum Dum repeats. “Or else he’s—“

“What the hell guys?” Steve turns to see Bucky entering the room from the way he left, a mug in each hand.

Dum Dum pulls Steve in a bit closer. He smells vaguely of cigarettes and Mountain Dew, neither of which are very appealing to Steve. “Just chatting with your good friend Steve. Thought we’d get to know him since—“

“C’mon Steve,” Bucky says, walking through the group until he’s in front of Steve. He holds out one of the mugs, which Steve gingerly takes from him. “These bozos can find something better to do than bother you.”

“They weren’t, um—“

“If we didn’t bother him, then we’d have never met him, Bucky!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like you don’t sit in a room with him three times a week.”

“Not the same, man,” Gabe says.

Bucky looks over at Gabe with disapproval. “Don’t defend him, Gabe.”

Jim starts in on Bucky next. “Can’t help it when you’re so weirdly—“

“Have we forgotten something?” Dum Dum asks and the room quiets down. For better or for worse, Dum Dum’s got a presence that commands attention. “Falsworth. Where is he? We’ve gotta get him in here.“

“Hey Steve,” Jim says. The room is sort of a whirlwind, but Steve manages to look over before he asks. “Isn’t that Bucky’s scarf?” Steve knows that his whole face is red. Dum Dum sniggers right into Steve’s ear.

“ _C’mon_ Steve,” Bucky says, eyes wide and looking like he’s about to start begging.

Steve disentangles himself from Dum Dum’s grip while managing not to spill his tea. “It was nice talking to you guys,” he manages before Bucky’s grabbing his arm and dragging him off.

“Not like you got to do any talking,” Gabe says, pinching Dum Dum’s arm. Dum Dum lets out a yelp of pain and surprise and the room dissolves into laughter as Bucky drags Steve away.

A few steps out of the room, Bucky drops his grip on Steve’s arm. “Sorry,” he says as they walk side-by-side towards Bucky’s room. “They can be a handful.”

Steve shrugs. “So can you.”

Bucky looks down at him, smiling. Some of the tenseness of the past few minutes dissolves. “Hey now, no need to be mean.”

“Just saying that I can see the family resemblance between you guys.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Eternal brotherhood, right?”

Bucky chuckles. “Yeah, well, if you think we’re a bunch of meatballs, you oughtta rush next semester. You’d fit right in.”

Steve rolls his eyes as they get to Bucky’s room. “Yeah right,” he says as Bucky takes his keys from his coat pocket and unlocks the door.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not really fraternity material.” Bucky opens the door and holds it out for Steve. Steve resists the urge to blush and heads inside.

“That’s bull and you know it.” Bucky shuts the door after he walks inside. He takes off his coat and drops it on the floor next to his desk. Steve takes off his backpack and drops it next Bucky’s bed, then hops up onto his duvet. “Anybody can be in a frat if they wanna be. They just gotta find the right match.” He pauses. “You could do well in Sigma Pi, if you wanted to. Not that I wanna pressure you or anything, but…” He trails off and shakes his head as Steve takes off his jacket. Steve’s hands hover over the scarf, not wanting to take it off but knowing that it’d be weird if he kept it on. “Hey, don’t take that off yet,” Bucky says.

He doesn’t look at Steve as he climbs onto the bed. He’s got his phone in his hand and holds it up in front of the two of them. “You mind?” he asks. Steve shakes his head. “Cool.” He positions the camera so that both of their heads are in the frame. “Ready, and—“

The camera clicks. Steve isn’t quite ready, but Bucky’s grinning as he taps at the screen. “Looks good,” he says, holding the phone out to Steve to look.

The picture does look good. Steve looks a little uncomfortable and the scarf is a bit overwhelming on his small frame, but he also looks happy. Bucky’s grinning, head tilted towards Steve’s, body language relaxed.

“I like it,” Steve says.

“I like—“ Bucky pauses, face falling. “I like it, too.” He turns back down to the phone. “It looks real nice. Can I put it up on Facebook?”

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Cool.”

Bucky starts tapping and Steve, well, he takes off the scarf and leaves it on the edge of Bucky’s bed, not sure what else to do with it.

**…**

October comes and goes with little excitement. November means midterms, and both Steve and Bucky buckle down and begin seriously studying. If anything, having Bucky nearby is helpful to Steve, who has always been an okay student, but never at the top of the heap.

“Make flashcards,” Bucky instructs him for English class. “Just read the footnotes,” he advises him for another. Bucky’s here on an academic scholarship and it shows: he’s got straight As and he was the only first-year to win a departmental award the previous semester. Bucky shrugs it off and says it could’ve been anyone, but Steve sees first-hand how much his work means to him. Bucky gets quiet when he studies and doesn’t talk to Steve for three full days when he’s knee-deep in research for a paper. It feels a bit lonely, but Bucky always ends up surprising Steve with coffee or a silly text after he works.

And before Steve knows it, it’s the week before Thanksgiving. Steve’s been holed up all weekend in the studio, working on a drawing for class. He turns it in on Wednesday morning and walks into English feeling a bit worse-for-wear, but excited to see Bucky and Peggy after his self-imposed weekend exile. He hasn’t heard much from Bucky, but he knows that Bucky’s last paper was due Tuesday night, so he didn’t really expect anything.

When he walks into class, he takes his usual spot next to Peggy. “You’re looking rough there, Steve.”

Of course, Peggy looks impeccable. Steve knows she had an economics exam this morning, yet her liquid eyeliner is completely even. She’s amazing and terrifying. “My portfolio was due this morning,” he explains, trying not to look too obviously over at the door.

“Staring won’t make him come any more quickly, Steve,” Peggy says quietly and amused.

Steve goes pink. “I’m not—“

“Yes you are, and it’s quite alright, but you’re just being a bit transparent about it, is all.” She chuckles as she pulls out her Moleskine notebook and opens it to a fresh page. Her eyes flick up. “Ah,” she says. “The eagle has landed.”

Steve looks up to the door, trying not to think about how he must seem like a puppy waiting for their owner to come home. But Bucky’s staring straight ahead as he brusquely walks into the room and up to his seat. He doesn’t look at Steve.

Peggy clears her throat. Steve just looks down at his own notebook. “He’s been busy,” he says.

“Oh,” Peggy says, unconvinced but respectful.

Steve bites his tongue and waits for class to start. 

**…**

When Schmidt ends class, Steve’s still trying to think of some way to get Bucky’s attention. Turns out he doesn’t need to, because before Steve can even turn around to head over to Bucky, Bucky’s at his side. “Hey Stevie,” he says. Bucky’s got huge bags under his eyes and stubble on his chin. His hair’s a little disheveled, like he’s run his hands through it more than usual and his clothes are plain, lacking the casually layered look that Bucky usually wears.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, packing his things up and pretending that he’s breathing normally. Dum Dum and Gabe call out to Bucky as they leave the room; Bucky waves at them half-heartedly and watches them leave. Peggy leaves as well, telling Steve that she’ll have her phone on her way out. “What’s up?” Steve asks after they all finish their goodbyes.

“Can I come over tonight?” Bucky asks too quickly. He’s looking over Steve’s shoulder, rather than at Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve says, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, sure.” He pauses, quickly wets his lips before asking, “You okay, Buck?”

Bucky nods, movement jerky. “Yeah, just… does six work?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Are—“

“I’ll see you at six, then.” Bucky hitches his backpack up on his shoulder, gives Steve a half-smile then practically sprints out of the classroom. Steve stares after him, confused.

“Is he alright?” Natasha Romanoff asks Steve quietly from the row in front of him.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Steve says, something gnawing at him that he can’t quite place.

**…**

Steve doesn’t go to open studio hours, since he finished his project last night. All of his other assignments were already due, so that leaves him with nothing but an open afternoon to hang out in his room and worry about whatever it is Bucky wants to talk to him about. Steve can’t think of a reason why Bucky would be mad at him.

But judging by the way Bucky looked after class, Steve is beginning to think that this has less to do with him and more to do with Bucky. He thinks about Bucky as he normally is, all smiles and sarcasm, smooth and casual touches. The Bucky that he saw this afternoon seemed so different and lost. Smaller, in a way. It scared Steve a bit.

“Hey man, want me to stay?” Sam asks at around 5:30. He’s packing his bag up for a long night in the library. He’s still got a midterm on Friday, scheduled by a particularly sadistic psych professor.

Steve shakes his head. “No, you go ahead.”

“Maybe he’s just had a bad week, needs to talk,” Sam suggests.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Maybe.”

Steve hasn’t known Bucky for too long, and there’s probably a lot he doesn’t know about him. But Steve can’t help but to replay the look on Bucky’s face ad nauseum in his head and think to himself that he never wants to see Bucky look that way again. And he won’t, if Steve can help it.

**…**

Bucky knocks on Steve’s door at exactly 6 p.m.. Steve rushes to the door and opens it to a Bucky who looks worse than he did this afternoon. He’s not wearing a coat, despite the fact that it’s only fifty degrees out and his hair seems greasy, rather than styled.

“Hey,” Bucky says, leaning against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah buddy, sure.” Bucky comes in, looks around for a moment as if he hasn’t been there before—which he has, he’s been there a few times, actually—then sits down on the edge of Steve’s bed. “Bucky, are you okay?” Steve asks, shutting the door then moving to the middle of the room to hover.

Bucky nods, but the movement is jerky, like this afternoon. “Yeah Steve, totally fine,” he says with a fake lightness that doesn’t fool Steve at all. “Just wanted to see you again before break.” He pauses. “You goin’ home?” he asks, looking up at Steve.

“Yeah,” he says, realizing that the two of them never got around to talking about Thanksgiving before this. “I’m going back to Brooklyn. You?”

Bucky snorts, face twisting into an expression that’s almost angry. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll be around.” It comes out cold.

Steve sighs, deliberates for a moment, then sits down next to Bucky. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know what’s wrong, and you don’t have to tell me, but you also aren’t fooling me. I can see that you’re upset and if you… Well, if you need anything, I want to help you out.” He glances down for a moment, then looks back up at Bucky making sure that they’ve locked eyes before he says, “I really care about you, Buck. I don’t want to see you hurting like this.”

Bucky looks over at him, blinks a few times. “Steve…” he says, then reaches out and pulls Steve in for a tight hug. He buries his head in the crook of Steve’s shoulder and breathes deeply and audibly. It’s hot against Steve’s collarbone. His hands wrap around Steve’s back; Steve can feel their pressure against his ribcage. Bucky is warm and firm, but shaking slightly. Steve knows he’s stiff, but moves an arm around Bucky’s back, tries rubbing comforting circles there, not knowing what else to do.

Bucky pulls back too soon. He moves his hands to Steve’s biceps and looks at him. “Steve, I…” He shakes his head, grip on Steve almost hurting. Steve winces just a bit and Bucky removes his hands, holding them up like he’s about to be arrested, face looking devastated. “No, Steve. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

Steve grabs Bucky’s hands and pulls them down to the small stretch of mattress between them. Before Steve can pull his hands away, Bucky takes a shallow breath and interlaces his fingers with Steve’s. “Don’t worry about it,” Steve says, voice not coming out entirely steady. “Please, just tell me what’s going on, Buck. I wanna _help_.”

A small, strangled noise escapes from Bucky’s throat. Steve squeezes Bucky’s hands, his own heart racing. Bucky bites down hard on his bottom lip. “I’m goin’ nuts.” His voice breaks and he looks down. “Everybody leavin’, it always… I hate it. It’s lonely.” His breathing is ragged, but it seems like he’s beginning to calm down and control himself. Steve rubs his thumb over Bucky’s, but stops when Bucky looks up again. “ _Steve_ ,” he says, disentangling his fingers from Steve’s and moving them to Steve’s face.

Before Steve can register what’s happening, Bucky’s pulling him in and kissing him.

It’s hot and hungry, immediately openmouthed with Bucky desperately seeking something from Steve, something that Steve isn’t sure how to give back. Or if he even wants to. But for a moment, Steve lets himself be pulled closer to Bucky, part his mouth for Bucky’s tongue, breathe in-tandem with him.

But when Bucky shifts, moving one hand into Steve’s hair and trying to pull Steve in closer, their teeth click together. 

The strange, unpleasant sensation brings Steve back into the moment. 

“Bucky,” he says, trying to pull back. Bucky makes a small, desperate noise and tries to bring Steve back in. Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s chest and pushes him away, not hard, but enough that Bucky gets the picture. Bucky pulls away, removes his hands from Steve. His face is devastated, eyes wide and mouth trembling, somewhere between confusion and anger.

“Shit,” Bucky says quietly, then stands up, taking a few haphazard steps into the middle of the room. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “ _Shit_ ,” he says louder and it’s almost a sob. “Fuck me,” he says, desperate and raw. He runs his hands through his hair and Steve’s worried that he’s trying to pull a chunk out, though when his hands come through there’s no evidence of it. Steve tries to get himself to say something, but comes up short for what feels like the first time. “I thought… Jesus Steve, I thought…” Bucky’s eyes are red now, brimming with tears as he grimaces. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spits out before turning on his heel. Before Steve can even tell him that it’s okay, that he likes him so much that sometimes he feels like he’s gonna burst open with it, that he just wants to talk before they rush into it, Bucky’s out the door and running.

It takes a moment to establish what’s happened, to realize that Bucky’s _leaving_ and Steve manages to shout out “Bucky!” as he jumps off his bed. He stumbles and scrambles to open the door back up, but by the time he’s out in the hall, Bucky’s nowhere to be seen.Steve knows it’s fruitless to run after him; he’s not nearly as fast as Bucky and he’ll just get an asthma attack, which is the last thing he needs while his mind’s spinning the way it is. Somehow, Steve makes his way to his desk, and grabs his phone from the table. He dials Bucky’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, you’ve reached Bucky Barnes. Leave your name, number and message after the tone. Thanks!”

“Listen, uh, Bucky. It’s me, Steve. I… I want to talk to you in person. Please—“ The word comes out too desperate and raw, cracking like he’s a thirteen year-old, but Steve keeps going. “I think… I think you misunderstood what… What just happened and I… Please call me back. Let’s talk. I… Stay safe Buck, please.”

Steve hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath and waits.

Bucky doesn’t call.

**…**

And Bucky continues to not call.

Steve barely sleeps Wednesday night, but manages to keep himself from calling Bucky again. He sends him a text around midnight, asking if he can come over and talk, but gets no response. Steve spends the night staring at the ceiling, wondering where Bucky is, what he’s thinking, and trying not to replay that kiss in his head again and again.

**…**

After his classes on Thursday, Steve walks to McCoy Hall. He stands outside of Bucky’s window, like he’s in some sort of cliché movie from the 1980s. He calls Bucky’s cell, but it just goes immediately to voicemail. He sees no movement behind the curtains of Bucky’s room; the lights aren’t even on. Steve doesn’t try going inside and walks back to Summers Hall feeling deflated.

He texts Bucky:

_I stopped by your place. You didn’t seem to be there. Can we see each other soon?_

And gets no reply.

Knowing it’s going to be another sleepless night, Steve crawls into bed with his laptop. He surfs the Internet for a while, then goes on the Greyhound bus website. There’re still some tickets left on his bus back home.

He buys one. He doesn't know why, but he just does.

**…**

Steve knows that Bucky is going to be okay. He’s Bucky Barnes, smiling fraternity brother who can drink Dum Dum under a table and saved Steve from Brock Rumlow’s fist. And… even if Bucky isn’t okay, if he doesn’t bounce back, it doesn’t matter. Steve wants to be there for him, if Bucky will let him.

Steve can barely wait for English class.

**…**

Steve gets to class early, stomach churning as he takes his usual seat. He pulls out his notebook and pen, hoping that he’ll be able to doodle, but he just ends up pressing the tip of his pen to the page and watching as the ink stains the page. He presses the pen down to the page each time someone who is not Bucky enters the room. And every person who walks in is emphatically _not_ Bucky.

By the the time that he hears Dum Dum and Gabe talking in the hall, Steve’s page is almost entirely black. Steve lifts his pen and his head when they walk in, not caring that he’s being so opaque about it. He wants to see Bucky, even if he doesn’t want to look at Steve, even if he never wants to talk to him again. It’s not until those agonizing moments waiting for Dum Dum and Gabe to finish up whatever it is they’re talking about that Steve realizes just how _worried_ he is for Bucky. Yeah, he misses him, but he also just wants to know that Bucky’s okay, that he hasn’t fallen off a bridge or lost an arm.

But Bucky’s not with Dum Dum and Gabe. It’s just the two of them.

As soon as he walks in, Dum Dum looks up at Steve. He gives him a half-smile and heads his way while Gabe goes to their usual spot in the back row. “Heya Steve,” Dum Dum when he comes over. He’s trying to keep it casual, but he’s worried. Steve can tell.

“Hey, Dum Dum.” He pauses. “What brings you down to the second row?”

Dum Dum gives a half-hearted chuckle, but his expression becomes serious. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the table of row behind him. “This is a kinda weird question, but have you, uh, seen Bucky? Recently? Or, well, since after class on Wednesday? He hasn’t been back to his room and we were thinking maybe he was with you.”

Steve’s stomach drops. It’s all he can do to squeak out a raspy, “Yes.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. Dum Dum looks relieved for a moment and Steve hates to add, “He came over after class and we had a misunderstanding.” Dum Dum keeps a poker face on, but his lip twitches underneath his mustache. “I’ve been trying to call him, but his phone’s been turned off. He… he hasn’t been in touch with you? Not at all?”

Dum Dum sighs. He untangles his arms and rubs the back of his hand across his forehead. “No,” he says. “Haven’t seen him since class.” He looks back at Gabe for a second, nods, then turns back to Steve. “He always gets like this around breaks, if you didn’t know. He doesn’t talk about it, but it’s probably because he has to stay. He doesn’t really have anywhere to go back to. Gets distant and weird, a little reckless. We thought that since the two of you are… so friendly that this time might be different, but—“

“He doesn’t have a place to go back to?” Steve interrupts. “What about his sister?”

Dum Dum shakes his head. “She’s overseas. They sold the apartment when she enlisted and he hasn’t left campus since.” Dum Dum squints his eye for a moment, looking at Steve, searching. “How much has he told you?”

“Not much,” Steve admits. “I knew that he wasn’t leaving…”

 _“I hate it. It’s lonely,”_ Steve's memory supplies.

“And I know that he’s not happy about it, but we didn’t get to talk about it. Not really.” Steve bites down on his lip.

Dum Dum looks away, lips pursed. “Shit,” he mutters to the air. “We told him to…” He trails off, looking back up at Gabe. “Never mind.” He looks back down at Steve. “Anyhow, if you hear from him, let us know if you can.” He pauses and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, mouth in a flat line. “And, uh, it’s not your fault, whatever happened. I mean, I don’t really know what went down, but Bucky’s got some shit to deal with, so I’m guessing it wasn’t really on you.” Dum Dum smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He ends up taking it out on the people he really likes.”

“Thanks,” Steve says dry-mouthed, still not sure it’s the right reaction.

Peggy walks through the door. Steve makes brief eye contact with her and she quirks an eyebrow.

Dum Dum follows Steve’s line of vision, and frowns. “Well,” he says. “Stay cool. Have a good break.” Before Steve can answer, he heads up to the last row, pausing to give Peggy a flirtatious greeting, which Peggy rolls her eyes at.

Steve doesn’t pay attention during class. He fills another page up with ink blots, angrier and deeper as Schmidt drones on about Faulkner. At the end of class, Schmidt hands back the essays they had written as partners.

“It seems that Mr. Barnes was too well to attend class today,” he says as he gives Steve both copies of their essay.

“He’s sick,” Steve mumbles, miserable.

Schmidt quirks an eyebrow. “How convenient it is that he is sick on the day before break.”

Before Steve can retort, Schmidt moves on to Clint Barton, shaking his head solemnly as he hands him back his paper. Steve can’t help but open up the paper and flip through the pages. On the last page, underneath the final paragraph, there are a few sentences of feedback in Schmidt’s cramped, spiderish scrawl. Next to that, written in red ink, is an A.

_I was not sure, but you exceeded my expectations. You two make good partners._

Steve manages to hold back his tears.

(At least until he escapes to the bathroom.)

**…**

“Hey, you’ve reached Bucky Barnes. Leave your name, number and message after the tone. Thanks!”

“It’s Steve again. I talked to Dum Dum and he says you haven’t been back to McCoy since Wednesday. I’m real worried about you, Buck. So are your brothers. So if you could just, I dunno, just let me know that you’re okay. You’re not dead or whatever. Doesn’t matter if you’re mad at me. I understand if you are. I just want to know that you’re okay. Please Bucky, _please_.”

**…**

Steve should be packing for his trip back to New York City—or at least celebrating the end of classes with a few shots of vodka—but he spends his Friday night laying on his bed, staring at his ceiling. “Look man,” Sam says as he gets ready for a night out. “I know you’re worried about him, but laying there and staring at your phone isn’t doing either of you any favors. You’ve just been sitting here for two days. I may not have declared my psych major yet, but I’m pretty sure you’re gonna go crazy just waiting around for him to come to you.”

“Are you suggesting I go out searching for him?” Steve pulls himself up to a sitting position. “I have no idea where he’d even be. Or if he’d want me to find him.”

Sam sighs. He kneels down and gropes around under his bed, making a small, victorious sound when he unearths the match to the shoe he’s already wearing. He stands up and looks over at Steve, still on his bed with his arms wrapped around his legs, trying to be as small as he feels. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s not your responsibility and that thing that happened between you two? Not your fault. But you gotta take care of yourself, that’s the most important thing. And right now? This wallowing thing that you’re doing? You’re not doing yourself any favors.” He slips the shoe on. “Even if you don’t find him, going out might be good for you. Doesn’t have to be to a party, just somewhere without a computer screen.”

Steve doesn’t say a word. He looks away from Sam and stares at the room’s closed door. Sam sighs again, loud and not even pretending to be anything but passive aggressive. He grabs his keys off his desk and heads to the door. “Have fun,” Steve says quietly from the safety of his bed.

“At least put on some Blink-182 or something. You need some kind of appropriate soundtrack for this whole wallowing sixteen year-old thing you’ve got going on.”

Sam closes the door just in time to miss the pillow Steve throws at him.

**…**

“Hey, you’ve reached Bucky Barnes. Leave your name, number and—“

**…**

It’s 9:25 when Steve’s phone rings. He practically dives for it, almost falling off the bed. The disappointment of seeing Clint Barton’s name on the caller ID is nearly enough to keep him from answering it. But, well, it’s Friday night, he’s alone, just stopped listening to Blink-182 and maybe Clint has something important to say.

“Hello?” he asks, only realizing that this may be some kind drunk/high prank call when he hears the background noise on the other end.

“Yo,” Clint says. Someone yells and a few people laugh. He must be at a party or a bar. “Rogers, you’re, like, going out with Bucky Barnes, right?”

“Um,” Steve says. “We’re…”

“Yeah, can’t hear you too well. But, uh, Barnes is gonna get himself into some real shit. He’s _hella_ wasted and picking fights with just about everyone and Brock Rumlow just walked in and—“

“Where is he?” Steve sits up too quickly and feels a slight wave of vertigo take him. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the feeling, to _focus_.

“Uh… A bar. It’s on Quill Street. Natasha, what’s it called?” There’s a pause and Steve starts lacing up his boots. “The Guardian.”

“Thanks.” Steve hangs up, slips his phone and keys into the pocket of his jeans. He leaves as quick as he can, forgetting his jacket and to lock the door behind him.

**…**

Steve steals an unlocked bike sitting in front of Summers Hall, promising the air that he’d return it as soon as he can, that he’s only doing this because it’s an emergency. Quill Street is just south of campus, not too far, especially on a bike. Despite his heart rate being a big kicked up from all the stress, he’s able to focus on controlling his breathing and is only mildly winded when he pulls up in front of The Guardian. The bar is a brick building with a large, oak door and frosted windows that shine with warm light. The parking lot is full and the music is loud. He parks the bike outside the building, leaning it against the wall. He tries not to think of it getting drunkenly trashed or stolen.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Steve gives him a moment to catch his breath. He watches a couple stumble out of the bar, laughing at each other with affectionate eyes. Steve swallows and catches the door before it swings shut. He straightens up and walks inside.

The place is loud, real loud.

The heat from the bar rushes at him when he opens the door, hot and moist compared to the crisp November air outside. Steve takes a step onto the sticky floor and is nearly pushed over by a few guys trying to get out. Steve pushes himself against a wall and tries to survey the room as best he can. The place is obviously not carding anyone; he sees plenty of his classmates scattered around, drinking pints at rickety black tables or doing shots off the dark wooden bar. Steve spots Clint in the corner, sitting at one of the small tables with Natasha Romanoff and a tall brunette who Steve recognizes as Maria Hill, an intimidating and smart political science major. Maria and Clint each have a beer; Natasha seems to be drinking a vodka tonic out of a tumbler.

But they’re not who Steve is looking for.

If Steve hadn’t recognized Bucky’s jacket, he would have glanced right over Bucky. He’s sitting at the bar, movements slow and sloppy as he throws his arm around around Brock Rumlow, pulling him close and whispering something into Rumlow’s ear. Rumlow is all tenseness as compared to Bucky’s languid movement. He pushes Bucky away just as Bucky smirks into his ear, saying something sharp that makes Bucky laugh to himself, smile bitter. Rumlow glares at him, but Bucky ignores it and grabs Rumlow’s beer from the bar. He takes a swig, eyes on Rumlow. Rumlow grabs the mug from Bucky’s hands, says something else, something sharp and Bucky begins to glare, shoulders becoming tense.

Steve’s seen that face before and it doesn’t mean anything good.

Even though he’s terrified, Steve walks up to the bar, up to _Bucky_ , who is animatedly slurring through some anecdote that Rumlow does not seem impressed with. He doesn’t see Steve coming; Steve hovers awkwardly for a moment before tapping Bucky’s shoulder with his index finger. “Bucky,” Steve breathes, because even though it’s only been a few days, it feels good to be near Bucky. Even if his hair is greasy and his blue eyes glassy. “Can we talk?” His voice seems small and Steve wonders if he should repeat it, if Bucky could hear him over the noise of the bar.

“You’re—“ Rumlow begins, eyes narrowing, but Bucky interrupts.

“Oh _Steve_. What’re you doin’ here?” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, a sinister gleam to the smile he directs at Steve. Steve tries not to flinch.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” Steve says, hating the way that Rumlow’s staring at him. “Can we just go outside? Please?”

Bucky’s smile falters for a moment, like he’s considering it, but it’s just a flash. He crosses his arms over his chest. “No,” he says. “Can’t you see I’m enjoyin’ my time with my friend, Brock?”

“Get him outta here, Rogers,” Rumlow growls, but Bucky just laughs.

“No need for you to be here, Steve. Get outta here. Not your scene anyways. We’re havin’ _fun_. No room for a a guy with a stick up his ass.”

Steve would be offended were it not for Rumlow, whose narrow, pointed eyes were not leaving Steve’s. “You have twelve seconds to get your boyfriend out of here, you little faggot before I make both of you—“

Bucky’s on his feet, hoisting Rumlow up by the collar, pulling Rumlow’s face close to his. “What’d you just call ‘im?” Bucky asks, low and dangerous.

“What he is,” Rumlow says before spitting in Bucky’s face.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch, just breathes heavy into Rumlow’s face. “Apologize,” he demands.

Steve reaches over to Bucky’s sleeve, holds tight to the fabric. “Bucky,” he says. “Bucky, let’s go, I—“

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Rumlow grunts before pushing Bucky’s chest. Bucky stumbles and falls back against the barstool he had been sitting on. Rumlow pulls back his arm, preparing to punch as Bucky takes too long to recover, but never gets the chance to throw it. Steve rams into Rumlow’s side and pushes him up against the bar. Rumlow grunts—so does Steve, actually—and turns on Steve. “You fucking asshole cum-sucking fuck face excuse for a human.” Rumlow takes a step forward, veins sticking out his neck; Steve manages to stand his ground. “Don’t think that you can just come into _my_ parties and _my_ bars and fuck with me. I’m not some queen that you can do what you want with, I’m a _real_ man, I’m—“

Steve doesn’t get to hear what Rumlow’s idea of a real man is because Rumlow’s rendered speechless when Steve knees him in the nuts.

“What were you saying about being a real man?” Steve can’t help but to taunt as Rumlow goes cross-eyed and drops down to his knees. He makes a sharp intake of breath and then lets out an inhuman-sounding groan. Steve grabs the remainder Rumlow’s beer from the bar and pours it on his head for good measure before turning to Bucky. “C’mon,” he says. Bucky stares at him wide-eyed, but Rumlow is beginning to collect himself and they don’t have _time_. Steve rolls his eyes, grabs Bucky’s hand and tugs. “We gotta _go_.” Surprisingly, Bucky laces his fingers with Steve’s, squeezes and lets Steve drag him out of the bar. 

When they’re outside, Bucky pulls his hand away, crosses his arms again and starts walking in the opposite direction of campus. “I’m gonna—“

“Bucky,” Steve says, jogging just a bit to keep up with Bucky’s long strides. “Why weren’t you picking up your phone?” Bucky seems to shrink, almost, posture becoming bent. “I was worried.” Bucky grunts in disbelief, rolls his eyes. “Bucky, we never got to talk—“

“I don’t wanna talk,” he says.

“Then let’s talk about the fact that your friends had no idea where you were. Aren’t they supposed to be your brothers? How could you do that to them?” Bucky starts walking quicker, his long, purposeful strides getting to be almost too much for Steve. The bike ride, sticky air of the bar, the _fight_ and now this are starting to get to Steve. He can feel his lungs begin to ache, but pushes forward regardless.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bucky says, tone angry and sarcastic. He hasn’t heard Bucky speak this way, not even to Rumlow. Steve never thought that the first time he’d hear Bucky this way would be in response to something he said. Bucky doesn’t look at him while he talks, just stares down at the sidewalk. “I’m not bleedin’, I’m not lyin’ in a ditch somewhere. Okay? I’m fine. Can you just leave me alone now? I was havin’ a good night.”

“No, I can’t just _leave you alone_. I—“

Steve coughs once, loud and dry. It’s the kind of bone-rattling cough that Steve’s always had but has never gotten used to. Steve turns around, lets himself cough a few more times to get it out of his system. Bucky shifts behind him, whispers, “shit” quietly. Before Steve can turn back around, Bucky gently wraps his leather jacket around Steve’s shoulders, hands hovering on Steve’s shoulders, making sure that it doesn’t fall off. Steve turns around, a protest forming on his lips, but is cut short. “Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says. In the streetlights, Bucky’s face is all shadows, haggard and tired-looking. “I’m fine.” He seems almost ashamed, this quiet statement being a pathetic echo of his grandiose statements just moments earlier.

Steve wants to reach up and cup Bucky’s cheek, to tell him to smile. He wants to pull Bucky in close and feel the heat radiating from his chest. He knows he can’t, not right now, when everything is so complicated. Instead, he pulls the jacket in tight and close and lets himself inhale the spicy, sweet scent of Bucky on it.

“Can we go back?” Steve asks, so quiet that he’s not sure he even said it out loud.

Bucky looks at him pained, then slowly shakes his head. “Steve, I… I can’t handle it. Right now. I can’t go back.” His voice cracks.

“Then come back to my room,” Steve says; Bucky’s eyes grow wide and realizing the way that sounded, Steve blushes. “I mean, I’ve got a sleeping bag.” Something in Bucky deflates, but his silence doesn’t mean no. “And I want to talk to you.”

“Before you go home.” Steve purses his lips and nods.

“Please, Buck.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. A car zooms past on the road next to them, then another. “Yeah,” he says finally, breath puffing a small cloud into the chilly air. “Yeah buddy, sure.”

**…**

Steve wakes-up on the floor. Before he even opens his eyes he notices the musty smell of the sleeping bag, unopened and sitting under his bed since he came to school. He opens his eyes to Sam’s empty bed. It’s only then that he remembers the secret phone call from the night before, quietly asking Sam if he could stay at Sharon’s, that something had happened with Bucky and it would only be this one time, Steve promises.

Almost afraid, Steve turns his head around slowly and is flooded when relief when he looks up to his bed. Bucky’s still there, snoring quietly. His legs are tangled up in Steve’s blankets and he’s holding Steve’s pillow against his chest. He’s still wearing his jeans from the night before, but his bare feet stick out from the untidy blankets. His hair is sticking up. Steve wants to keep looking, but knows he shouldn’t.

Instead, Steve gets up quietly, grabs his toothbrush and slips his feet into his bathroom flip-flops. He opens and closes the door as quietly as he can before heading into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, does his business and splashes water onto his face. His hair is messy and he’s got big, purple bags under his eyes like bruises. But he’s also strangely happy, knowing that Bucky’s safe in his room. The past few days’ fear of not knowing what happened to Bucky and if he was okay is finally gone. 

Letting himself smile for what feels like the first time in days, Steve heads back and opens the door quietly, surprised to see Bucky sitting up, blinking hard and looking confused. “Morning,” Steve says, shutting the door behind him. “How’re you feeling?”

“I think I’m dead,” Bucky says as Steve puts his toothbrush away. “But that doesn’t really explain where I am.”

“My room.”

“I know that, asshole.” It’s not angry, just tired-sounding. “You… kicked Brock Rumlow in the nuts?”

Steve shrugs. “He was being an ass.”

Bucky grins. “You kicked him _in the nuts_.”

“Yeah, alright, I did.” Steve sits down next to Bucky. Bucky reeks of alcohol, smoke and sweat but Steve can’t bring himself to care about anything but the fact that he’s here, next to him. “I kicked him in the nuts.”

“Jeez, you really do got a death wish, don’t ya?”

“I wasn’t going around hugging him!”

“I didn’t _hug_ him,” Bucky says, then snorting out a laugh. “Just tossing my arm around him like buddies do!”

“But you two aren’t buddies.”

“When I’m drunk, _everybody’s_ my buddy, Steve.” He looks down, suddenly tired. “I should go,” he says. “You gotta pack, don’t ya?”

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s forearm. Bucky looks up at Steve, gaze steady. He’s trying not to show anything, Steve knows he is, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s unhappy. Steve knows he is. Suddenly the words Steve wants to say get stuck in his throat. “I was…” He begins, but stops. He can’t disappoint Bucky now.

Bucky reaches with his other arm to touch Steve’s hand with his own. “What is it?” Of all the stupid stuff he could do, Bucky sounds concerned about _Steve_. It’s rich.

And it’s because of that, the shift in Bucky’s expression to fond worry, that Steve blurts out, “I’ve got an extra ticket.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “To Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory?”

“No, you jerk. I’ve got an extra ticket for the Greyhound bus. I mean, the one that I’m taking. Back to Brookyn.”

There’s a moment where Bucky looks confused. Then he’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s real nice Stevie, but I don’t got anywhere to go.”

“No, I mean, you can come with me. Home. To my apartment. It’s not big, but we’ve got a couch and my mom always cooks too much anyways and—“

Bucky practically lunges at Steve, pulling him in tight. His buries his head in Steve’s neck and takes a few shuddering breaths. Steve’s not sure what to do, so he settles for bringing his arm around and resting it on Bucky’s back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. Bucky’s not wearing a shirt, which really just complicates the whole situation. It reminds Steve of a few days ago, and the thought that Bucky may… It makes him nervous and excited. Steve shuts his eyes, tries to promise himself that he won’t be disappointed either way. “You sure?” he hears Bucky whisper after a minute.

“Yeah, of course.”

Bucky pulls away, which is almost a relief to Steve. His eyes are red, probably from the hangover, but Steve wants to think that this has somehow touched him, as well.“Thanks,” he says.

“It leaves tomorrow at 9. You better not be late or hungover.”

Bucky’s smile spreads slowly across his face, starting small and growing until the lines around his eyes crinkle in the way that they do. “I won’t be. I promise.”

He’s not.

**…**

They spend the first hour of the bus ride playing hangman in the small notebook that Bucky carries around in his backpack. Bucky looks worlds better; he’s clean-shaven and his hair is slicked back like usual. Even the rings around his eyes are smaller, even if they’re not completely gone. Every so often Bucky grabs Steve’s shoulder and turns him to the window saying something like, “See that orchard? We went there last summer and the cherries were so good, Stevie, they made my whole mouth red!” or “They say if you go down that road you can see the World’s Largest Ball of Yarn and I wonder who makes that decision, y’know, to make the world’s largest ball of yarn in the first place. Seems kind of nuts, but I guess everybody’s gotta have somethin’ that they wanna do with their life, even if it’s makin’ a giant ball of yarn.”

As much as Steve appreciates the yarn, it’s the comment about the cherries making Bucky’s mouth all red that sticks with Steve. He contemplates texting him mom and asking if they could have cherry pie instead of their traditional apple on Thanksgiving, but he’s also not sure that seeing Bucky with cherry-red lips is too great an idea. May make Thanksgiving a whole world of uncomfortable.

The cherry orchard is pretty early into their six-hour bus ride, but after about two hours he falls asleep.

He wakes up at the depot, head resting on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead,” Bucky says, closing the book that’s sitting on his lap.

“We here?” Steve straightens up, stretches his arms above his head. His back cracks and he groans.

Bucky laughs. “Yeah. You missed a whole lot of interestin’ stuff. Nearly woke you up when I saw a couple cows makin’ the beast with two backs, as it were.”

“Jeez, Bucky.” Steve tries to ignore the blush blooming in his cheeks.

“Such a Puritan, Stevie,” Bucky says, grinning as he grabs Steve’s bag from the luggage rack.

“I can get it myself,” Steve huffs as he takes the bag.

Bucky shrugs, still smiling. “Gotta make myself useful somehow, bein’ your Thanksgiving charity case ’n all.”

Steve grabs Bucky’s arm. “You’re not,” he says, making sure Bucky’s looking at him, that he understands. “You’re my friend. I want you here. You’re not a charity case, will never be one, not to me. Got it?”

Bucky blinks twice, then nods. “Yeah, Stevie. Yeah.” He bites down on his bottom lip before reaching up to grab his own bag.

They exit the bus in silence, Bucky close behind Steve. There’s a bit of a crowd in the station, but Steve’s mom is waiting by a wall, waving enthusiastically once she catches Steve’s eye. “That your ma?” Bucky asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t be too excited there, Stevie.” It comes out as a joke, but Steve knows it’s serious.

He looks up to Bucky. “She’s the best,” he says. “You’re gonna love her.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Even if she raised a loser like you?”

Steve elbows Bucky in the side; Bucky laughs and swats at Steve’s arm in retaliation. Then they start walking and they’re laughing and—

Steve looks over at his mom. And in that moment, she raises her eyebrows, like she _knows_ just from the thirty-five seconds she’s seen her son and his hopeless crush together.

There is a chance that this may be the longest week of Steve’s young life.

(Whatever; he’s ready to take it on, just as long as Bucky has a good week.)

When they walk up to her, she’s pulling Steve in for a bone-crushing hug before he can say a word. Bucky laughs and Steve goes red. “ _Mom_ ,” he whines. “We’re in the middle of the bus station.”

“Stop complaining or I stop paying tuition.” Steve sighs but lets himself close his eyes. His mom’s not much bigger than he is, but she’s comfortable and familiar. Her blonde-going-on-grey hair is pulled up and she’s wearing a soft white cardigan underneath a worn, tan trench coat. And he’s missed her, missed her so much. “It’s good to have you home, Steve,” she says quietly, before squeezing him extra tight and letting him loose. Then she turns on Bucky. “You must be Bucky Barnes, then.”

Bucky nods. “Yes ma’am.”

She smiles. “None of that. Call me Sarah and I’ll call you Bucky. Lord knows I’ve heard enough about you that I feel like I deserve it.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Steve complains a second time, face _entirely red_ —like a cherry, his mind unhelpfully supplies—and mortified. “I don’t, I mean—“

“Only the good things, I hope,” Bucky says, shaking Steve’s mom’s hand.

“Usually, but Steve neglected to mention what a looker you are.”

Bucky grins and Steve realizes that this will _definitely_ be the longest week of his life.

**…**

(But it’s not, of course it’s not. He and Bucky spend a lot of time together, walking around the neighborhood. They go to the Met and look at _I Saw the Figure Five in Gold_. They eat egg drop soup at Yen Yen. They even walk over to Bucky’s old apartment, where they run into his old land lady who give them cookies and a hug. Bucky decides not to call up any old friends, opting to spend time with Steve, even when Steve’s just sitting around and sketching.

“You don’t have to just sit there, y’know,” Steve says as he tries to get the angle on the window right.

Steve’s apartment is small but comfortable. There’s a bedroom each for him and his mom, a bathroom and a kitchen which connects to a small living room. They’re in the living room now, sitting on the brown sofa and facing the TV. It’s on Animal Planet, quietly playing _My Cat From Hell_ as Steve draws and Bucky reads a book.

Bucky looks at Steve from over the top of his book. “Huh?”

“I mean, you can go see your friends or something. I won’t be offended.”

Bucky sets the book down on his knee, cover facing upwards. “One, I got homework to do, just like you. Don’t let yourself think that I’m gonna let my grades slip just because I missed one day of class. And, well, I like it here. I like bein’ with you.” His voice becomes quiet and it’s like all the other noise of the city street below them and the TV next to them disappears.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “What was—“

And of course that’s the moment Steve’s mom gets home from her shift with a few reusable grocery bags that Bucky immediately jumps up to help her with.)

**…**

And then it’s Thursday.

The turkey is ready around one, and they congregate around the small dining table behind the couch. 

“Before we eat, we have to say what we’re thankful for,” Steve’s mom says as she sets the turkey down on the top of the finished wooden table. There’s not enough space on it for three people plus the turkey and sides, so Steve and Bucky set up the mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and stuffing on the stove. They managed to squeeze the cranberries on the table, right next to Bucky’s plate, which was definitely not an attempt on Steve’s part to recreate the cherry orchard. They’re each drinking cheap white wine in mismatching glasses and the annual dog show is playing on mute in the background. Once the turkey is situated, she sits. “I’ll start: I’m thankful that I got a pay raise, which means we can have a whole turkey instead of just a breast this year. I’m thankful that they fixed the pothole on the corner and Sheryl got moved permanently to the children’s ward, though I’m not so thankful that the children will have to deal with her. And I’m also thankful that Steve managed to make a friend this year, especially one so handsome and funny.”

Steve turns red and spits out, “Yeah, well, I’m thankful that my mom lost the album of baby pictures where I’m in the bathtub.”

“Misplaced,” she says, grinning. “Just need to search a little harder, is all.” She pauses. “Is that really all you’re thankful for, Steve?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m thankful that college is good and that Sam’s a good roommate and…” He glances over to Bucky, who is already looking at him. Steve looks down at the cranberries. “I’m thankful that, uh, the Greyhound had an extra ticket available.”

“Bucky?” Steve’s mom asks.

Bucky looks down at his empty plate and smiles. “I’m thankful that I met Steve Rogers. He’s kind of an idiot, but he always makes me smile.”

“Here here,” Steve’s mom adds, raising her glass. Bucky clinks hers with his and they both beam at Steve.

“Can we eat already?” Steve asks, absolutely mortified.

**…**

When the meal’s over, Steve and Bucky return to their spot on the couch while Steve’s mom goes to her bedroom for a post-turkey nap. Steve hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until the clanking of a pan wakes him up.

“Do you think…?” Bucky mutters.

“Steve can sleep through anything,” his mother says. They’re washing dishes and Steve should get up to help, but he’s just so _tired_ and— “What was it you wanted to say, Bucky?”

Bucky clears his throat. “I… I don’t really know how to bring it up with Steve, but, uh, I wanted to pay you guys back. For the bus tickets. I got the money together, so—“

“Why don’t you save that up, use it to get yourself something nice.”

“But—“

“Please Bucky, it’d break Steve’s heart to hear you talk that way.” Bucky mumbles something that makes Steve’s mom laugh. “Or how about this: use the money get a ticket back for Christmas time.”

Something in Steve’s chest tightens and it’s not his asthma.

“I dunno,” Bucky says. “I… I was real surprised Steve invited me here at all.”

“Is this about your fight? Because Steve was just worried about you.”

“Did he—“

“I don’t know all the details, but he was upset. But he also asked me about having you over while the two of you were still fighting. I don’t think he ever gave up on you.”

Bucky’s quiet for a minute and Steve can hear the sound of sponges on pans. “I’ll ask him,” Bucky says. “About coming over winter break. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“‘Course not, Bucky.”

They stop talking and Steve drifts back to sleep.

**…**

“You boys good to stay on your own?”

“Yeah mom,” Steve says as Bucky absently flips through the channels. They’re sitting on the couch together, carefully on opposite sides. Steve woke up an hour ago, just in time to miss cleaning up the dishes at all. Bucky sat down with him and they haven’t been up since. The sun’s gone down and the apartment is chilly. It’s a holiday tradition that his mom goes out with a few of the other nurses for nightcaps, celebrating their day off. She’s prettied up, wearing a dress and some make-up. She looks nice. “Technically speaking, we’re adults. I think we can handle ourselves for a few hours.”

“Just don’t want you two to burn down the apartment. I know how boys can get.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep him in check, Sarah,” Bucky says, grinning at Steve because he knows just how weird Steve thinks it is that he and his mom are now on a first-name basis. And how weird it is that they talk about feelings while they think Steve is asleep on the couch. “Make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

“Oh you do that, Bucky.” Steve wants to die, then and there, but thankfully, his mom leaves the apartment.

Leaving Steve and Bucky alone, really, for the first time since Steve nearly managed to ask him about what happened last week. A sudden heavy air comes over the two of them, each with their eyes glued to the TV screen.

Steve’s the first to break the tension with a loud sigh. “I think she likes you more than she likes me.”

“Bull,” Bucky says, setting the remote down when he lands on a rerun of _Storage Wars_. “She thinks the world of you. Just likes that you made a friend. I bet she was worried about you leavin’ for school and not knowing anybody. I still worry about Becky like that, even though she tells me she’s got friends. You never really know until you meet ‘em.”

“So we’re friends?”

Bucky’s voice is a bit forced. “Yeah, Steve. ‘Course we are.”

Steve glances over; Bucky’s tense, resolutely not looking his way. “Are we gonna talk about it?” Steve asks, hoping that this doesn’t explode in his face, but also not wanting to back down. It’s been over a week since it happened and they haven’t talked about it at all, even though they’ve spent so much time together. And yeah, it’s been fun, but Steve wants to know why Bucky did it, why Bucky thought it was okay to mess with Steve like that, when Steve’s been so obviously into him since they met.

Bucky sighs and Steve thinks it sounds sad, rather than exasperated. He grabs the remote from the couch and clicks off the TV before clearing his throat. “We probably should,” he says. “Since we told your ma that we’re adults and all, but.” He swallows. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”Steve forces himself to look over at Bucky. He looks small again, posture worse than usual and staring at his hands, which are resting in his lap. He hates seeing Bucky like this. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, it is but it’s… You don’t have to feel bad about it,” Steve stutters out. Bucky looks up, confused. “Y-you weren’t acting like yourself, those couple of days. So I… I totally get it, Bucky. I do. You don’t need to worry.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Thanks, I guess.”

They look at each other for a moment, but Bucky breaks away, looking at the window and… and he’s sniffling.

“Bucky, are you—“

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, wiping a hand across his eyes. “It’s just that I’m an idiot, but that ain’t nothin’ new.”

“Bucky, you were probably just taking cues from me. You don’t have to feel so bad about it.”

Bucky chuckles and turns back to Steve. Oddly enough, he’s smiling. “Yeah, but the thing is? I do. I feel real bad about it, _awful_ , even. Because I really like this guy, right? And I’ve been tryin’ to work up the courage to tell him about it and I messed it up. Messed it up real bad. And now he’s here, lettin’ me down so easy, tellin’ me it’s okay and it’s not. I made him uncomfortable and he doesn’t even like me back.”

“What?” Steve asks, deadpan.

“What what?” Bucky asks because they’re _children_.

“You…” It’s not until then that the goddamned blush comes back at full force. “I didn’t know that you, um.”

“I kissed you.” Bucky’s looking at him pokerfaced, but there’s something like hope in his eyes as he inches forward. “I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Steve says, wishing the TV were still on, that there was somewhere else to look besides Bucky’s blue eyes. “Okay.” Steve absently wets his lips with his tongue. He can see Bucky’s eyes flicker down to the movement. “Well, I do, too.”

“Like yourself?” Bucky’s smile is so tender that it almost hurts.

Steve swallows. “No, you jerk. I like _you_.”

“And you spent the past week thinkin’ I’d just kiss whatever bozo came along?”

A car honks outside, noise loud and piercing. Steve barely notices. “I dunno, Buck. Just never thought that you couldn’t really like me like that.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Bucky reaches over and grabs Steve’s hand. They’ve interlaced their fingers before, several times, but it feels different now. Bucky’s skin is warm and soft, and his thumb rests gently against the side of Steve’s hand, light, ticklish touch feeling similar to the warm feeling inside of Steve’s stomach. 

“Wow, this is… um, wow,” Steve stutters out. Bucky just widens his smile, beaming to the point where it just takes over his face. Steve loves it. “You’re… I mean, you…” He exhales, frustrated with himself for being unable to express it. “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“I want to. Can I?”

“Jesus Christ Steve, of course you can fuckin’ kiss me. Asking like it’s some kinda favor if he can kiss me, like—“

Bucky doesn’t finish the thought, as Steve is grabbing him by the collar, dragging him over and kissing him until both of them are grasping for air. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, hungry too quick and wet. The scent of cranberries linger on Bucky’s breath and they both start laughing halfway through. They have to stop, even, to just laugh it out, grinning as Bucky leans over to kiss Steve again.

It’s the best Thanksgiving ever.

**…**

“You’ll watch _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ with me, right?” Steve asks that night. His mom came home far too soon and the two of them were exiled to Steve’s bedroom. It’s surreal, having Bucky there, amongst the drawings he hung on his wall during high school and posters of bands Steve hasn’t listened to in years. Even if Bucky’s in a sleeping bag on the floor. (Steve’s not a saint, but he’s not about to go about sinning with his mom in the next bedroom, alright?)

“Hmm?” Bucky asks, eyes closed. He didn’t take a nap that afternoon, Steve remembers. But Bucky reaches up to the bed and grabs Steve’s hand. How he does it without looking is anybody’s guess.

“Charlie Brown. Mom hates it.”

“Probably because she’s spent the past eighteen years livin’ with the little punk personified.”

Steve pulls their intertwined hands up to his mouth and bites down hard on the side of Bucky’s hand. He yelps and Steve laughs. But he doesn’t let go. “Jesus Steve.” Bucky’s laughing and Steve kisses the spot he bit. Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand and lets out a deep breath. “Sure I will, Stevie. No skin off my back. Maybe my hand, but not my back.”

“So you’re gonna have to come for Christmas, then. It’s settled.”

“If you say so.” Steve looks over the edge of his bed to see Bucky smiling up at him, blue eyes bright, even in the darkness. “But you gotta promise me one thing,” Bucky demands, voice quiet.

“What?”

“When I take you ice skatin’ at Rockefeller Center you gotta wear my scarf again.” He shuts his eyes and relaxes his head. “It’s so big it looks like it’s eatin’ you. It’s pretty cute.”

Steve tries to sound irritated, but it comes out sounding nothing less than fond. “You’re a jerk.”

“But I’m your jerk. Otherwise you’d’ve kneed me in the balls ages ago.”

Steve flops back onto his pillow and looks up at the same ceiling he’s fallen asleep to since he was six years-old. “Night Bucky,” he says, thinking about how this isn’t the first time they’ve fallen asleep together, but how this time it’s different. Much different. Better. He squeezes Bucky’s hand.

“Night Stevie,” Bucky mumbles back.

Soon there’s nothing but the quiet sound of Bucky’s muffled snores and nothing to focus on but the warmth of Bucky’s hand and the rise and fall of Steve’s own chest. His first semester of college will be over in a few weeks, yet he’s breathing easy. And Steve can’t help but feel that he’s learned a lot.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very, very secretly dedicated to the two Deltas who picked me up after I drunkenly slipped behind the Post Office last February, walked me back to my dorm and told me that even though I was having a hard month, things were gonna be okay.
> 
> (Spoiler alert: Things are now okay.)
> 
> If you'd like to follow my adventures in life, check out whtaft.tumblr.com. If you would not like to follow my adventures in life, no hard feelings, but know that even if you're having a hard month, things are gonna be okay.


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